A potted plant held under his arm,
He kicks the laceless clogs from his feet,
Lest muddy loam raise his wife’s alarm.
Then on the porch he drops to a seat.


Gardening has now become a chore,
No more is it a labor of love.
Some days his joints becoming so sore,
He has trouble slipping on his glove.


Still, he enjoys the feel of dark dirt,
And the sun beating down on his back,
So, even though his old bones might hurt,
He will gamely repel each attack.


Rising early to face a new day,
He’s determined to get back outdoors.
This price for gardening he will pay,
As stiff and aching joints he ignores.


His wife tells him he’d better slow down,
For he isn’t as young as he was.
But he responds with a stoic frown,
"Yup, I’m aging. Everyone does."


On his own terms, he will carry on -
His motto is "To sit is to quit."
Ninety years since the day he’d been born,
Not only neath his nails is true grit.