The Gardener

You walk barefoot, on the clipped grass, 
The hedges loom over us
harboring me from the thundering sky.
An imprint on the ground, a shadow where the flowers lie.
And there they are.
For, I know how they work as the seasons go by.  

A gardener, one who cuts weeds away.
They carve their sculptures in 
Mere plants.
A gardener is an artist. They simply guide the trees.
and there is the masterpiece.
A gardener is free, 
Entangled in their work.
Imagine living in plants, vines wrapping you up.
It’s summer.
A gardener is strong.
They watch as the seasons change.
Delicately destroying the bed of flowers
that the sun used to lie in. 
The sun is hidden.
A gardener is a storyteller.
Intertwining pages of leaves,
With the gardener’s touch. 
The hedges breathe 
with the gardeners tools.
And finally, the gardener can
read.