Amid the circle of my sins
I stood alone collecting clouts
And back I threw my graceless seeds
And feared that one day they might sprout
I knew: when picking season came,
There would be no one else to blame.
But when its course the nature took
And early shoots began to rise
I gave my plants a second look
And, boy, it took me by surprise.
I planted weakness, fear, and guilt
And, yet, each day I harvest love.
I broke, I failed, I hurt, I reeled,
Yet, I was told: you are enough.
I'd spray with venom, day by day,
Until it made my sacks run dry,
And yet they bloom, they bloom away,
And I. Don't. Even. Have. To try.
To you, my ever-fertile ground,
The cause and consequence thereof.
To you, who turns my fate around,
Your humble gardener,
With love.
A letter from a gardener
© Copyright: Женя Некрасова, 2021
Свидетельство о публикации №121102008673
Свидетельство о публикации №121102008673
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