mingo

i remember his hands.

brown leather,

his face worn with sun.

with life

and time

passing. always in his yard

reaching.

a garden hose in hand.

his white hat tipped

to hide the sun.

the grapes across

the trellis.

the sunflowers taller

than a man. tomatoes

and corn,

lettuce translucent

and green.

everything would grow

under his kind words,

his gentle command

each seed pushed down.

as a child how could know

who he was,

what this was all about.

but now as you kneel

to ground, and wait,

you understand.