Morning Gift

         He was a poet, and she had loved him for 50 years--which was hard to explain if you caught him unawares--as she did most mornings--standing in the back yard, scrawny arms spread in a V, reaching to the skies and proclaiming

                                                    Morning, morning is here!

                                                    Another day!

                                                    Awake! Awake! Awake!

                                                    Before it slips away

                                                    Away...away...away...

    Each word quieter than the one that preceded it. At the last away, he tightened the frayed rope that held his bathrobe closed and walked toward the back door, stopping only to pick a dandelion--or three--for their morning bouquet.

    She had begged him to stop with the dandelions. "They're weeds. Picking just encourages them to make more," she'd said.

    For the next week he increased the number he picked until on the 7th day, when he offered his straggly bouquet, he sang, sang

                                                        Dandelions are here,

                                                        Yellow beauties plucked for two,

                                                        Beautiful like you.

    No wonder she was besotted with this crazy old man.