calloused palms and chocolate fingertips, they trail soil and grassy smells as his fingerprints brush your cheek
and whisper
i love you, child.
I imagine he doesn't wear gloves, today,
as he digs and plants
on one knee and carefully,
placing roots, and lifting new leaves,
gently tending us just right.
Sometimes those skilled hands of his slow and he sits down beside me.
Father, is that you?
we ask as our plans rearrange
as we are uprooted and carried across the garden,
as our troubles soothe
as our dried-out days are given - miraculously -
a sweet drip line of living water.
Some days it rains
and we tip our mouths up and shut our eyelids and
whisper back,
thank you -
now i am in the rows of green, watching for him
i know if i am listening, i'll hear his nearness
if i am looking, i'll find his footprints
his hand shovel
he tends to be right in front of me, smiling with his eyes -
I am here, in this garden, and
he is here, in this garden, with me.
