You're tired. But there is breakfast to make,
emails to answer, and poems to write.
You have to submit your manuscript, which means
making sure the page numbers are right.

Then you work out, and stretch, and cool down,
and head for the sauna when you get the chance:
Strip naked, carry the hamper to the laundry,
but then remember you have to water the plants.

So nude, you gather your watering can,
and visit each fern and the bonsai tree,
decide a succulent cannot be saved:
And this is how you appear to me.

Naked as Eve in the garden, flushed,
sweaty hair, a beautiful mess,
a half-dead struggling plant in your hands
your only natural dress.

You ask me to throw out the plant,
say please, and give me a kiss.
But the truth is I would do anything you want
if you asked me naked, like this.

You twirl to continue your rounds
and leave me, a & lucky man
wishing for once I were a thirsty fern
being blessed by your watering can.

I watch you walk away, transfixed.
I am lovestuck and smiling wide
until I notice the next plants needing water
are the ones on the deck . . . outside.

But off you go to tend to your beauties
watering them one by one.
Radiant woman now only clad
in the glorious rays of the sun.

I have always considered it fortunate
that we live on a hill in the middle of the woods,
'cause if the mailman were to come right now
he'd die from one glimpse of your goods.

O Naked Gardener, carry on
there is no one but me who can see.
And I hope one day you feel as beautiful
as you look every day to me.