The Gardener
I am a bush: growing wild over the years
to many, my vines growing are that of
a free spirit gifted in abandon.
But as time proceeds I become entwined, unshapen.
No light reaches my center -
a slow decay sets in -
a strange limbo.
I strain my leaves to feel - to absorb light - life.
I plant my roots firmly as though to say
I will not be moved
stubborn.
At last when time has lost its shape
my leaves have withered -
my roots are loose --
I have forgotten even the thirst
though still unquenched.
Then, quietly, in the cool of the evening
a gardener walks by me -
lifeless, but still alive.
There is a tenderness in his eyes
an understanding -
even the Why?
He begins to prune, taking care to remove only the rot
cutting back more 'til I lay exposed -
barely there - stark.
It is a painful openness at first
the light - stronger, more brilliant.
I had never really seen it.
Slowly, I grow - taking nourishment from the gardener.
I see myself growing in his eyes
pruned carefully and exactly by his hands.
My leaves are full now - I am shapen strong
with a new grace.
One day the gardener does not return,
the time has come for me to grow -
remembering his caress.
And in the cool of each and every evening
a mist envelops this bush
that is me.
Restoring and refreshing.
