.
He is old, but young at heart. He gardens by day, smiling and lively.
There is a lot of unwanted green in nature. It gives each new morning a youthful vigour.

His thoughts, I have no idea, are perhaps full of expectation
In the heartbeat of this moment he feels only what he sees. But he sighs. He carries the pain in his loins.
So he leans on the wood of the shovel. He is used to temporary standstill.
.
He is a reflection of me. But I don't see myself standing.
Most of the time I am sitting. So am I now. My gaze falls on his prosperity.
A lot has happened there. I have to say.
.
Once he said to me: "You can help me best (after having offered to help) by not getting up for my little garden.

Your silence is also a pleasure to me in the end".
.
Shyly, I withdrew into my own little shell.