All summer Grandma's garden thrives
because she has the magic touch.
"I'm blessed with two green thumbs," she says.
"and over time I've learned so much."

To keep the garden orderly
she prunes the bushes, grooms and weeds.
"Give seedlings space to multiply,"
she says while sowing flower seeds.

When daffodils and tulips fade,
she snips off petals, binds their stalks,
thins foliage which crowds out sun,
and spreads new mulch along the walks.

White peonies require her care.
Top-heavy blooms with drooping heads
require mesh rings to prop them up,
keep them confined within their beds.

Transplanting takes up so much time.
The hostas which have grown too thick
need much more shade and far less sun.
And she'll remove whatever's sick.

There's always plants to fertilize
and pots to sprinkle with her can.
While eating she'll peruse guide books
and carefully review her plan.

Each flower craves my Grandma's touch
and bending low, salaam to her.
She lovingly applies her skills,
artiste more than a gardener.