The Groundskeeper

 There once was an estate, magnificent in splendor and unequaled in size. The mansion was a deep grey with a steep, menacing roof. The bathrooms were marble, the kitchen was granite, and the fixture in both, of the purest gold. The foyer, with Grecian statues and a grand staircase was the envy of the town.

 

The people came, though, for the garden, a masterclass in botany with a litany of brilliant flowers; its aroma radiated like a wild perfume throughout the villa, bringing the air to life

with the buzz of a thousand bees, their jackets glowing with pollen. A stream, almost natural in appearance, wove through untrimmed shrubs and trees whose fruits were so juicy, so sweet

that their appearance in the market would cause riots among the shoppers.

 

This estate had a groundskeeper, wrinkled and wise – called lazy by those who know him – that slept on a cot in the shed surrounded by pristine tools. He was seldom seen and heard even less.

 

Yet one day, a curious visitor asked the secret to his vegetal mastery. He gripped his belly and fell into the mud laughing. Nature, he said, with a humorous tear, cannot help but be beautiful. The job of man      is to simply let it.

***

(Cuenca, Ecuador -- May, 2020)

Sometimes, it's best to just let nature take its course. I like this poem a lot. It's just a little too prosaic and basic.