Many would use chemical compounds to
make their flowers flourish.
Not Mr. Reeve.
Every morning, his crooked fingers
would knead the soil in his portion
of the community garden.
Pulling back the blinds would reveal his silhouette
against the backdrop of the sun.
No visitors, except the occasional ladybug.
It was to be a community event when Mr. Reeve’s
incessant actions would split the soil.
He was a tradition.
The comatose would be awakened by his
whistling of show tunes and
spraying of the hose.
Mr. Reeve was always on schedule.
Even when it rained.
He became a permanent fixture in the eyes of citizens.
When Mr. Reeve was cremated, the family decided
to have his ashes scattered in his portion of the garden.
A week after the service,
a tiny root began to poke through the soil.
He is a boomerang.