The Gardener (Stream of Conciousness)

His spade cuts the ground fresh earth, turned crumbling separating dark and loamy

A worm a sign of healthy soil and then the pressing of the seeds those tiny things hard and dry and dead pressing into earths flesh and hoping something will come forth

His fingers are covered with dirt staining prints and under nails and pushing into treads on the bottom of the sole

And when those hands are washed and shoes come off the night comes, the days and nights go by, sun up and down clouds crying on the ground which breaks the shell and green comes forth

He walks again along the rows, pulling plucking those wandering twisted things that choke and overwhelm the tender shoots and careful where he steps so not to crush the newly born
That new and tender grows taller with leaves that reach and soak up light and air as days grow warmer and days grow longer
He ties the stem to a stick, a guide that proves strong when the heavens let loose of rain and wind and sun beats down to wither and dry
Soon flowers show their faces, blossoms that promise a certain harvest and bees land to gather and spread and pollenate and with the bees other pestilence, because its not too late for all to be lost and then all is lost so careful dirt pressed fingers pick off the unwanted beetles and crush them with a dirt pressed heal

And suddenly one day that plant is no longer just a shoot or tender sprout but a woody strong and tall bush that bears crazy and delicious and juicy in abundance and he plucks with tender care and always amazement and great appreciation for all that’s gone into this glorious producing this wonderful ripeness that must be completely taken in and enjoyed fully because it’s a season, they always pass and he knows and in gentleness he frees the fruit and savours

But then the plant no longer bears and the leaves turn down and curl and brown and all that once flourished now droops and reaches for the earth the soil from which it came so he takes the spade and it cuts the ground cuts through roots with crack and snapping pulling all that once was green and living back to that place, that darkness from where it all started, the birthplace the death place for seasons come and seasons go and he knows and he buries and waits for spring