She pruned at us with noble, nimble, thumbs.
She saw us as boundless, those seeds we were,
adjacent to the worms and death, impure weeds,
we sprouted up with thorns. She wore gloves.
Water rains from her nurturing heart;
naturally, we began to pine for more.
When she was away, we felt unkempt, poor;
our thorns too sharp, she unpricked us anew; we felt green.
She gave us crowns and petals, pink and blue,
from grains to stalks, so mighty we became. Spirits lifted, never again to wain,
her lips curved to smile as stronger we grew.
And I am grateful to have been dethorned, her love and passion so deep, untorn. 12/12/2013
Ten years have stuttered by, time’s formless hands undenied. The garden she planted outgrew all her comprehension.
As blossoms new begin to sprout and life forever is passed on down, from wise gardener knowing best, the love eternal is unbound.
Thriving from her furrowed brow
and blooming from her clutching hand, we hear a heartbeat silent, deep in earth, from all the life that lived before.
Before the garden we know to grow, before the patch below was plowed, there came the blossom of her own, the blazing pedals of her past.
Though those plants have bloomed and passed,
and though I cannot touch or hear them, she has brought them to us.
The gardener always has with with every laugh and smile and guiding word.
The green we glow and gleam with
Is the gloaming from the ground that birthed us.
She is the sun and rain rolled into one, The deep roots which let the newest budding burst.
12/7/2023