The Gardener
He remembers the dead planted in his head,
he counts roots and tendrils,
some go missing,
and he wonders where?
He used to garden when he had a garden,
so he looks for the once planted,
sees his friends and lovers and all the others
as sunflowers and snapdragons, also
wilderness blooms.
Memory has its own way to nourish,
it can also dead-head, even uproot,
but there are many blooms in his head.
He wonders that without this inner garden
he might be just an empty garden pot.
So he tends to them,
even the ones that have turned
into brier and thorns, after all
he has kept them for a long time,
maybe they wake him in the night
for a reason still.
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