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My hands are the hands
of a gardener,
fresh with soil, sunlight, and rain,
with the breath of flowers
and kisses of moisture.
I sprinkle seeds over the earth,
like a holy man sprinkles sacred water.
The soil: grateful for my blessing.
The birds: grateful for this small fare.
I chant incantations and listen
for the growth of roots,
for the rustling of sprouts,
pastel green and tender, spiritual
and uplifting.
I rain dance and praise the sky,
hold my hands to the air,
forming a small bowl
for the rain to fill,
to be the stimulus, the birthmother,
the liquid that makes
the garden whole.
I ask the sun for waves
of light, the breeze
for strength and circulation,
the fertilizer for sparkling minerals
that infuse the roots, stems, and fruit
with vitality.
On my knees I dig
with bare hands into the soil:
my hands, like intimate dancers,
lead the busy prolific weeds
to another existence, to their rebirth.
My hands are the hands
of a gardener,
fresh with soil, sunlight, and rain.

——————————————————————
From my fourth book: The Translator
'Transcendent Zero Press', 2015

Search Amazon: "the translator/dah"

This poem was first published in ‘Stone Voices Magazine’

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