You, Mr Bova:

Because of that June afternoon when we sat contemplating your
vegetable garden blooming, coming to life in front of my
amazed eyes. While you smiled, kindness and pleasure mixed all
over your face. And the tomatoes totally undisturbed pushed
and pushed and got redder and redder, and the cabbage sprang a
new leaf, and the green onions blew their scent our way, and
the zucchinis streched another inch or two while I watched,
your art work, perfect rows of daring, colorful vegetables
coming to life.

And it is the memory of your concern for me in spite of the
distance between your Colorado and my California: You will let
us know how we can help, won't you? You said.

The letter from your wife, Joan, said: cancer. But all I could
think of were those neat rows of many shapes and colors in
your garden.

That is why I think of you at poetry readings.

You, Ken Ward:

Because you and your family adopted me and my family. And your
smiling blue eyes, your mocking lips, gave me a very special
brand of friendship. Gave me some of my most treasured
memories: Lake Tahoe, the Pacifica beaches, the Company's
picnic by the beautiful ponds.

Because you loved nature so much, it decided to claim you for
herself. The news run like wild fire through the office that
morning, searing our senses.

You had taken your son river fishing in the early Spring.
Little Kevin fell in, the current carried him down river.
You threw yourself after him into the icy torrent.

Mr. Parcell, the company manager, with tears in his eyes,
told the horrified assembly: both drowned. But you have never
left me, you are in every cool glass of water I drink,
in every river, lake, ocean I swim in.

That's why I think of you at poetry readings.


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