Martin

Today I watched as young man carried out his tasks on the velvet lawn of a local
business.
In his hands he held a modern tool of convenience--a weed whip is what
they call it.
Meticulously, he trimmed around the edges of the grass, and as he
did so a strange thing occured.
No longer was the industrious young man grasping
the fuel-run machine.
It had quite simply transformed into the rustic-but-comely
form of a scythe.
The gardener was swinging its blade smoothly across the surface of the unruly ground.
The grass now had lost its unnaturally smooth finish, it grew with a look of greater wildness--yet still with an aura of civilization and dignity.
The man by now had changed considerably as well.
The hoody that had formerly ensconsed him was now replaced with a rough cotton shirt overlaid by a shabby overcoat.
He seemed to have aged approximately ten years, and yet his eyes appeared a good deal brighter, and more lively to be sure.
I have since decided that it must have been Martin.
His look was so very wholesome that you couldn't help liking him from the start. And that is just precisely how I always knew Martin would be.
So there you have it.
It certainly was him, and there is an end on it.