It's Still Life

The Gardener

The gardener watches a soft
muzzle of clouds lying in wait.

                                          Rain.

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

                                never boil.

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