The gardener watches a soft
muzzle of clouds lying in wait.
He’s not much for poetry, but
he is a poet. Each plant contains
a gardeners’ syllable, perennial
pages and stanza borders, and
yes, I acknowledge ample weeds
sprouting thin as legs everywhere.
Weeding is my forte, I’m told, but
he’s undeterred by written water
spilling from a tap, a robin’s nibbed
appetite for overturned worms.
The bird pounces. The gardener
returns a squinting smile. And I’ve
nearly forgotten that this blank
page of his will come solid colour.
He watches the clouds. For signs.
For fate. I watch a pot of simmering
soup, because watched pots
dVerse Poets a “narrative fiction voice” exercise, image is from Unsplash, NY Public Library, Drought of 1939 Yakima Valley, Washington. Shared with @Experimentsinfc #APoemADay on Twitter ©Misky 2021