by Roy Dorman
He had fallen into the bushes
while reaching down
to turn off the outside faucet for the hose.
He now lay there on his back for a bit,
crushing some of his treasured,
just-watered perennials,
not knowing if he should laugh or cry.
He almost certainly would crush
a few more of the ferns and jack-in-the-pulpits
in the process of rolling over to get back up.
The longer he thought about it,
the more he was leaning toward laughter
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We have to laugh as long as we can. Had I fallen in the garden, my wife, the gardener, might not have wanted me to get up. I never thought I’d spend my dotage surrounded by flowers. They can wake me in her garden when the time comes.
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