Deeper

Horticulturalists often tell you
About their favorite plants.
No, that's not right.
That's the question WE ask horticulturalists
Feeling proud as we do it
For even knowing what a horticulturalist does
So perhaps we forget to see him,
Forget to notice his tired eyes
Because his four-month-old daughter
Isn't sleeping well,
Or his slightly unkempt hair
Tousled from wearing a pilot's headset
While obtaining his 407th flight hour
Towards his license,
A dream he's held
Since before he met his wife.
"Rhododendrons," he answers,
"Because they made my wife smile on our third date,"
And he doesn't tell you how many times he's been asked.
But you go to coffee with him later
And you tell him about you and your wife's ambitions
To raise goats in your backyard,
Or maybe ducks,
The ones that eat bugs.
He laughs, and tells you he won't mention
The bug-eating ducks to his own wife
Or she'll want some.
Three months and four pub nights later,
He calls to tell you that his wife
Is losing her faith in God
And he doesn't know what to do.
Neither do you
But after two-and-a-half hours on the phone
You hear his breathing even out
And he cracks a joke,
Thanking you for your friendship.
You tell him you're grateful
To be the 568th person
That got to hear him say, "Rhododendrons."