By Rich Tassinari, Guest Poet
Penstemon, when your bells appear
Rings in the springtime of the year,
A time of color sprinkled wide
Throughout a paradise this side
Of banishment from first ideal,
We have a second chance to heal.
And like the darting little guest
Who reaps what’s sown as full expressed
They drink from simple floral cups
In gardens where each pilgrim sups
To wholly fill with fitting fare,
We too can reap what’s sown in there.