The Gardens of My Past

He was an artist of sorts, he brush was a hoe.
Mother Earth was his canvas accepting seeds he would sow.
His perfect rows of green with not a weed in sight,
All the plants spaced properly, the soil tilled just right.

Everyone depended on his always tasty crop,
When they were ripe and ready, folks knew just when to stop.
His sign out front would let you know what vegetables he had on hand,
And he'd weigh them up on an old scale that was sitting on a stand.

The price was always right and you never had to wait in line,
He'd sit and share a story, if you had the time.
I was sometimes by his side, the only pest was me,
But Grandpa didn't mind as far as I could see.

The killing frost came early once and took his namesake son,
And just like fall to winter, the cycle had begun.
Now he too is gone but the magic never dies,
When I sow my seeds in spring, it's in his watchful eyes.