Gardening, A Poem

To plant the flowers with the soaked roots into the ground that remains infertile and unkind and yet one hopes.

One keeps hoping the next season the tree will grow and the sun will warm the earth enough to make the flower open.

The petals are burgundy like the blood of the lamb, a sacrifice of love and desire not previously unknown.

Transplant, dig and soak, keep toiling the soil with the hopes of a good crop and the joy of plucked sweetness dancing in your dreamy wishes.

Until another tomorrow finds the planted seeds scattered and removed from the warmth of the ground and the grave and unknowing questions keep circulating around the sun.

The fenced heart with daily doses as the doctor recommends, vitamins and sunshine to keep disease a distant memory but, the stench of roses merely disguises rot and death.

Rose food, time released all the saints proclaim but, the devil mocks and carries on his demonic plans for what is planted and what can not be hoped for but, keeps the yearning alive.

The yellow flowers are loathed but, the white and the blood coloured ones are most loved and cherished and so they are watered, fed hopes of tomorrow, next year, next season are empty promises raining on their petals.

Wet and dewy, moist and full but, the stamen is dry and hording all of it for himself therefore no flowers will fill this garden. Sowing and tilling is merely counting time, time until another garden can be planted in another place.