The Gardener
He counts roots and tendrils,
delves deep into his tillage,
some plantings have escaped
and he wonders to where?
He seeks for the once planted,
finds them, reveals again the beauty
even in the wilderness blooms.
There are many flowers to tend to;
without this inner garden
he might only be an old clay pot.
So he gardens,
waters the ones that have turned
into brier and thorns, after all
he has kept them for a long time,
and some wake him in the night
demanding his attention
even yet.
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