He buries his head, bulbous lips and leaves
the flower bed for rhodedendrons; none
but he can see how sore the garden grieves.
Yet, grows a smile, once his season's sun
has sprung the singing blackbirds and begun.
He knows and always knew that when dew drips
its silver filigree from cobwebs spun
upon the monkey puzzle tree, new tips
below the ground not only grow, but grow tulips.
