Mr. Jenkins' Garden

Mr. Jenkins' Garden He won't be out to tend his yard this year, old courtly man who navigates that great swamp of heavyheaded pink, pooled on the hill behind his house. Felt hat planted square, starched shirt and tie. I never saw him work amid his mountains of leathered leaves, but he walked to town blossom-laden like a bride, tossed bouquets to tellers and clerks. Smiles carved his face, his eyes sparked mirth. He sat in church alone always, left before the end to stride back home to birth more buds. He died this March, long before crimson bloom exploded on his hill. Heaven, I hope has more than lilies in its courts and roses, or else God will have to send Mr. Jenkins to the edge of Maple Street for just a peak at his rhododendron palaces in June. —Susan M. Lefler 93 ...