The Gardener

They nimbly sweep down, with a dancer's grace,
Judgementally caressing, that foliage placed,
Discerning, those worthy, and which don't belong,
From the feel of the stem, or the leaf, or a thorn.

Hunched over, kneeling, in the cool of the night,
Of no use to his labours, was the 9-5 light,
Dew moistened hands, work methodically, impassioned,
Lips drag slowly, on the smoke, dirty fingers had fashioned.

Digits press into soil, forming mounds, cradling roots,
Water, poured from a can, nurtures each fragile shoot,
Gently, he reviews all, between thumb and four fingers,
Backward, sweep of his hand, gauging growth, still lingers.


Sentinels of his labours, stood by, closely, on guard,
Their yellow rimmed faces, turned south of the yard,
His head, upward angled, catches the first call, of a lark,
Water prisms, refracting moonlight, sparkle unseen in the dark.

Straightening slowly, groaning softly, a push
on his cane,
Breathing deeply, through nostrils, he smells coming rain,
That call, his work whistle, first hint of the dawn,
He sighs deeply, shuffles slowly, to the porch, cross the lawn.


Todd Henry