the gardener


Even now I can feel him.
Hands buried in my heart,
reaching deep to upturn old, unwanted roots,
roots long hidden from the light, fooling me
of their power to grow and squelch the new life sprouting.
I grimace at all this sifting
now wedging dirt beneath his fingernails.
He, soiled with me,
plowing the dark forests of my hurt and shame,
and I scream, “go away,”
retreating to shadows amidst tangled roots.
But still he
to the muddled life cloaked in trees and clouds
but hacks at those stems that separate us
with the resurrected sun
and an emptied pocket full of seeds.