Something to Do
By James B. Nicola

He stuck a stick,

Nature made two

And gave him more to do,

Which was a funny trick.


Then later, three,

Four—all plush and green—

Up to a hundred and seventeen.

He offered one to me.


That first at last is lost

And my old friend is dead.

I go on in his stead

At simple, splendid cost.


His gardens give me food;

Houseplants, company;

The forest, mystery,

Foliage, and wood.