. . .

A sociable creature one mustn’t confine.

No treasure isle circled by blue arms of brine.

A lost lonesome island no human can be,

For landlocked we are by our own geography.

Deserted our souls, tired and thirsty become.

When starved of a gurgling affable hum.

The life-giving waters of rivers resound,

A friendly flow nurtures the dry dusty ground.

A particular Proust, the French novelist fine,

He champions a thought captured best by this line:

As does a gardener tend to his trade,

Pruning away at a green grassy glade,

A charming friend cares for blossoming soul,

They are the gardeners that make us whole.

. . .

Granville D. Austin