My Friend Daryl

My friend, Daryl (Bruce's son), is in Spain for five weeks studying culture, language, and engineering. Bruce and Susan tell me he is having a wonderful time. He even went to Rome for the weekend to see his girlfriend, Sara. Ah, love. I miss him, though; but I know he will come to see us as soon as he gets home. Here is a photo of Daryl and me:

Daryl wrote to Bruce and Susan and asked what was new here at our home. Bruce wrote back to Daryl in a poem; I'm mentioned in it so I'm going to post it:

A Poem for my Son in Spain

My garden, Susan says
I nurture and cultivate
As if it were a child

I water the garden
Each and every morning
My English cottage garden

I marvel at the order, seeing
In each planting the divine
Spark of life, I watch

Arugula, Sweet Basil, Lime
Basil, Cilantro, Lettuce
Tomatoes and Zinnias

Cosmos, too, each planting
A poem, the garden bed
A continent in the yard

Gladiolas now breaking
Through the soil, green
Soon pink and red

The peas, too, in the bottom
Draw of the chest I found
Anxious to grow up

The string I hung
On both the chest and
The old wood ladder

Nadine, too, anxious
To come outside if she is
Not sleeping inside

I love to see the pink
Peonies, early in the morning
Moist with dew and now dying

I think they are beautiful
In this state, in evening
I watch too

Last year's painted pink
Wheelbarrow sits nearby
The freshly painted picnic table

A white canvas on green
Grass with two white
Stripes on either side

Here you and I are
At MOMA or the Met
Seeing Stella, Dekooning, Rothko

So much depends
Upon
A pink wheelbarrow

Often I stand at the sink
And look out the kitchen window
Watching the birds flutter

At the feeder, the Bluejay
Sparrow, Cardinal, Starling
Flicker, Yellow Finch, but

I have yet to see
A Hummingbird
In our front yard

Though I know, I must
Be Patient, she will
Arrive any afternoon

As sure as the Clematis
Blooms and blooms
Bursting in its glory

You always said, Dad
What's for breakfast
Lunch and dinner?

I remember the way
I saw you in another
poem, years ago, I wrote

Sitting as perfect as God
Created you, the naked son
An Edward Weston image

Beautiful, son
In all ways
Always

After dinner I go
Outside and see my garden
Has been disturbed. Birds?

Susan says, this is
The plight of the farmer
I am okay with this

And, Daryl, if you wonder
About the dog, the dog
The dog behind us

The dog behind us is still
Barking day and night, Coco
We call out Coco Coco