At seventy-two, Jeanine, you know What only clever gardeners learn: Give roots their dark, give dreams their room, And let the seasons take their turn. Retired from clocks, but not from wonder, You coax a poem from a seed; Your fluent French falls soft as rainfall, Your wit keeps thistles well agreed. Grandmother, poet, making beauty From words and soil and afternoon— May birthdays find you still creating, With earth-stained hands that hold the moon.