Jasmine
By John Herlihy

I
His was a noble soul,
A man born in the NorthWest Province,
Of an ancient tribe whose roots reached deep,
Hash and rough for all that,
His hands were like gorilla paws.
He was a mountain man,
With a neck as thick as rope cord.
He would walk ten miles,
If it meant someone needed help.
Loyalty was the key,
To understanding who this man might be.

II
We were sitting in the garden;
The desert sunlight blinded me as I sipped my coffee.
The garden around us the product of his own hands;
The trees surrounding the lawn bent quietly in the breeze;
The bushes and flower bed trembled by nature with ease.
He would be leaving this garden soon;
Destiny would be taking him far away.
No one knows what will happen to his garden,
With him no longer here to nurture it and stay.
For now, he continues to water the trees and bushes.
Not a trace of melancholy, not a hint of feelings forlorn.

III
What’s he doing? I think to myself,
Rummaging around in the bushes over there,
As though looking for his other self.
He approached my side in silence
And handed me something to take.
I looked down into my soft palm
At a sight only God could make.
“What are these called?” I asked in ignorance,
Raising one delicate bud to my nose.
“Yasmeen,” he responded to no one in particular,
As if his was an answer that everyone knows.