Patient Gardener

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Sweet Sprout,                                                         
it’s time you knew                                                  
the years she spent attending                    
to                                                                           
this dry, acidic soil bed.                                          

Your predecessors
curdled in ground’s
womb before
sun
could bathe them.

Fist gripped on spade
she hacked and
dug at weed
tangles
and stubborn stones.

With muddied knees she
poked and prodded
until the ground
bled
out it’s sickness.

Focused brow–sweating,
smudged– bulging seed,
just germinate!
And then
(tear-soaked) you did.  

Nourished, bed-fed,
grounded–you will
unfurl.  You will
thrive.
You will lift her from

her knees.  And
hands to the sky,
she too will take root.
Staking herself
to this holy place

where the Almosts
decay and  become
the soil that nourishes
you both
from the inside out.

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