There is a potted azalea in the living room
That feeds my soul.
All summer it planned for bloom.
Month after month it gave itself to this.
I should like to think
It gave itself to me,
Planned to reward me
For the scorching days of neglect
And the numerous hours it lay
Tipped on its side by the exuberant wind,
And crushed against the flagging of the patio.
But the azalea is not concerned with rewards.
It is content to be.
It is in being that it blesses.
I would like to give myself as completely to being.
I would like to feed souls.
By Charles A. Waugaman (1932 – 2010)
WITHIN The Circle of Seasons
Poems by Charles A. Waugaman
All Rights Reserved.
2003, Elin Grace Publishing
Collection copyright, Author
This book is out of print.