poem.

the gardener

Even now I can feel him.

Hands buried in my heart,

reaching deep to upturn old, unwanted roots,

roots long hidden from the light, fooling me

of their power to grow and squelch the new life sprouting.

I grimace at all this sifting

now wedging dirt beneath his fingernails.

He, soiled with me,

plowing the dark forests of my hurt and shame,

and I scream, “go away,”

retreating to shadows amidst tangled roots.

But still he

doesn’t

leave

me

to the muddled life cloaked in trees and clouds

but hacks at those stems that separate us

with the resurrected sun

and an emptied pocket full of seeds.

--Bethany Douglass


I just had to share this which deeply spoke to my heart this morning
on a dear friend's blog (which daily speaks to me.)