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.
