the gardener awakes
every sunlit morning, the same;
he un-curls like a rose turning from oxygen to carbon dioxide, night to day,
once more.
he does not break fast. he plods
to the gardening shed, because
he feeds his flowers before he feeds himself.
and pulls on his leather gardening gloves,
his sun-worn gardening hat.
the watering can that he has used for years,
filled with well-water he has had for years.
it’s simple, familiar;
routine.
and he carefully makes sure
that not a drop reaches what his flowers don’t touch.
every now-and-then, though,
the watering can springs leaks and the gardener cannot
stop
them.
so he just reminds himself,
to kill any sprouts that come up;
because they are potential weeds
that could devour up this paradise,
his-garden-of-flowers.


the gardener awakes
and he finds a sprout,
springing where his water accidentally fell.
it grew
and grew
and now it is green and new and living.
he steps on it.
the gardener doesn't expect to see it again,
but he does.
he sees it every time he goes to his garden,
tries to stamp it out every time.
but he can't. it won't go away.
what a stubborn plant.
so he lets it be. it doesn't even need
daily watering.
it just flourishes and flourishes, like the sun alone and
just maybe the gardener makes it grow.
soon enough
it is a rose, a king among flowers, and
the gardener sighs.
because despite his efforts,
that flower is his. it is his paradise to see it,
it is his-garden-of-flowers.