The Gardener

Hands in the hip pockets

of oversized overalls,

the lone woman sees only black

mud amongst scares greens,

the earth turning its dead over damp.

She remembers hot days,

his back to her, curved sore

over the mess of her crooked rows,

the worn skin of land

at mercy to his hands,

callused, barely holding,

the work staining his fingers,

brown and tired.

The abandoned garden

now sighs like spent flesh,

too groggy for a spring time,

aching for the touch of someone

who know what he’s doing.

Away, another woman sleeps

too well against the soft moss

of his outline, who knows him

only clean and patient

without the scent of old living,

without having to water or pull weeds.

She shakes her head,

puts down her hoe and spade,

looks at the heart of her once sacred acre,

empty, pending resurrection,

and finally buries the idea of his return.

by Amy Bohlman (sadly Heartlands: A Magazine of Midwest Life & Art is no longer in print)