Gardener's Hands

There he is in the garden among the radiant blooms, making time all by himself what he loves most doing. He whistles and he hums out in the hot summer sun, under a gently falling rain on a cold, drizzly morning. He is a peculiar creature to those who know him not for a little leaf he caresses softly like a woman's body. To a tiny tree he whispers as if breathing to give it life and at a newly-opened bud gazes with childlike wonder. He finds peace and solitude amidst his vast, leafy domain, time flies by much too quickly as he bends, sniffs and trims. How he labors and sweats, nothing by accident comes; things grow only if nurtured, this the man firmly believes. Trellis he patiently builds for pesky vines to climb on, not letting them to just crawl on wet and soggy ground. In that lush, bountiful garden, living and dying he witnesses; he won't have it any other way, it is his sole reason for living. Each plant dying and withering pushes him to toil even harder, sow new seeds to take its place so his garden will live on and on. Ah, the gardener's gentle hands so perfectly loving and life-giving, a mirror image of the Almighty's, the Gardener who created him.