To The Gardener

Gently now,
Or I shall curl inward
To wither against
Your touch. But if
You must; till the soil
Around me with
A loving spade;
And when you prune
My branches, do it
With such weeping
That I will forget my pain.
For I have grown frail
From all the seasons
In the past. And if
Then you require
That I bloom bravely
With your caress;
Let the water flow
Softly into my roots
And capture the meekest
Sun upon my petals
To rest.


april 2
© 2007 mei-xiu