Toad in the garden

Dry leaves in old men's whispers
herald his approach
and moving fronds betray
my caretaker upon his rounds.
We share this work together
he and I ...
I call them mine. He knows
these are his grounds.
Clothed in hobnail coat
and enigmatic stare,
he parts chrysanthemums ...
we're eye to eye!
Serene and ancient
one with Earth and time,
my Buddha of the garden
passes by.

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