On damaged knees in wet and sweet dark dirt,
the gardener in his plot mumbles:
his soul is singing songs of friable decay,
of tingling life through fingers’ sifting touch.
.
He presents his face, unashamed and
divinity anoints him priest, seer, Adam’s son
with sacred smudge of sweat and primal dust.
All joy is not in bloom but in seeding.
‘his soul is singing songs of friable decay’ – oh! this is stunning.
You are so right here, I think, about the joy not being just in the bloom. There’s a divinity in that labour, that struggle to life.
Lovely work. 🙂
Thanks for reading, Anne. We seem to be of the same mind in a lot of respects; that’s comforting. Leo
Thank you, Susan! You’ve been anointed, too!
Leo, this is beautiful! When I garden I feel at peace, one with the earth. Almost like I was made to do it. You caught that so well here.
Belated Words 
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