his garden, known through the land,
toils of labour reflected in hand.
dirt of steadfastness kissed calloused skin,
marked by endless blossoms that burst from within.
soil and fauna, this fertile delight,
each plant blessed, sweat’s loyal plight.
the promise of faithfulness,
a raindrop to the stubborn heart.
spring’s immortal flood, this garden, his wondrous art.
but for one shrub, it struggled to bloom,
so long, catacombed, trapped within the tomb.
why prune that, destined for dead?
weeds and thorns strangle, toss it they said.
but the gardener saw spirit swelling in this seed,
trampled, battered, but remained, as unbroken reed.
fighting for a glimpse, warm wholesome light,
suffering, enduring, repetition, the strangled night.
and the gardener pruned, gaunt and frail leaf,
trusting, one day for liberation from grief.
choked and starved, but still hope took root,
ailing keeper whispered, “my child you will bear fruit”.
still, element gnashed, stem barely a wraith,
when might this longsuffering sprout out in faith?
the gardener, so certain of what he could not yet see,
this thistle destined to stand as unwavering tree.
at his passing, not even the slightest bud,
but he slept knowing of growth beneath the mud.
his grave, the story of hope assured,
dug beside a sapling that all now adored.
tendered in love’s garden, infallible belief.
now, eternal resting, shrub shaded him, his wreath.