Gardener

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’