The Gardener

Summer arrives
in a dazzle
of pink blooms.

The gardener admires
my petals with his fingers.
Yes, reach for the sky!

Seasons pass. Rivers slow. The gardener comes
in shadow—a small flask
of rain.

A brutal cutting!
Tendrils reach out for him, asking
“Why?” as they fall.

His tapping boots fade.
I curl in grief, hidden
under earth’s dark starve.

Endless night, silence.
Who am I without my bloom,
my admirer?

From the stillness, Spring
enters in a rush to wake
‘n shake me up.

Why didn’t I know? Pruning
brings new lustrous blooms.

It was only winter.

— Ani Martin
(Published February 2025)