Gardener

I have become Gardener
planting seedlings in mulch
fermented from blood and the sap of
cracked bones,

given life with salty tears.
Hyacinths, orchids, birds of paradise,
forget-me-nots, and an almond blossom
tree (I place the seeds, I watch the ground breathe)

I sing them a nameless lullaby,
a lilting tune of half-remembered cadence,
a piper's ache of faith to find the light in
earth without direction.

I tend to my seedlings every evening
when the doors creak shut and the
smoke from dinner dissipates,
pouring new salt and feeding them
the love leaking from cracks.
Waiting, waiting, quietly, as they
push aside soil to reach my
outstretched palm.