The Gardener

Wind sung sonnets of the sun and the moon,
Was all of love we ever knew.
For this we toiled, we rose, and we grew.
The wonder, the awe, of when he first came,
He stopped and he smiled. We fought and we strained.
As his hands came forth, we all bowed in shame.
As he just picked one, wanting more but restrained.
In a restless chorus as the hum of a breeze,
Our hearts would echo and our minds would plea,
“Pick me. Please, pick me.”
Grabbed and pulled,
Treasured prize and precious jewel.
But, what when our petals wilt and colors dull?
Alas I was alone until one heard my cries.
Soft spoken words and gentle eyes.
He told me tales of lands far and wide.
He sang of mysteries shared by the night.
It could have been hours, it could have been brief.
With one last word, he stood to leave.
A hopeful flutter, a fearful plea.
But too great for words was my pain and my grief,
When he merely watered my leaves,
And into the night, he left like a thief.
Daily he came, hours he would stay.
He didn’t take, he only gave.
Tending the soil, and sharing his drink.
A lost memory, a faded dream.
Enthralled by the chorus that he would softly sing,
“In the evening I would hide,
For you to glow and shine.
I’d give up the day,
For you to have the night.
For if I were the sun, you must be the moon.
And I will be a gardener,
If it means that you may bloom.”

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