The Book of Life

He had cultivated
Love in a windowbox,
So high above the city
That he never saw the street.
Daily, his patient fingers
Nurtured the soil,
And watched seed
Slowly turn to stalk,
And stem become flower.
Here was goodness
He could hold
In the palm of his hand,
Bright sunlight which danced
Down a deserted hallway,
And crept across
The drab little room,
Where, page by page,
He pressed each precious petal
Into the book of life.