He opened my eyes, let me see Said, Fire, fire! Turn a hose on me He showed me a world as true as clay Then went his solitary way He took me to work to rake the leaves A canvas tarp on his shoulder heaved How many loads before he sat? More than you can shake a stick at Let me ride the horsy, Daddy My gumption’s gone, my little lady Wish I had the preacher’s unction He cut roses, not the blooms shunned thorns, cigarettes and booze ushered on Sunday, shins blacked and blued by rocks the renovator threw I proudly showed one too My bloody finger from a rosy thorn a price too small, a gift too meager To know his conduct matched his prayers