Rain rumors whisper in rustling leaves
Dry-boned, desert panting
I pray there’s truth in this breeze
Like the toddler king
Dancing in sprinkler rain
With naught in hand but daily bread,
And a pillowed promise for his
oft windowless head
Whose lips loose prayers in the dead of night
And leap with laughs of love’s delight
His courage lifts the moss dressed rock
Sunbathing by the stream
And with surgeon hands considers
the underside of a heavy thing
Whose fingers fly on dalmatian notes
Touching all major and minor keys
It’s wedding bells and it’s hurt like hell
And each chord in between.
His feet seek out the paths of praise
Laid thick with briar and bramble,
And still he knows the gardener waits
Smiling amidst the shambles
In the cool of the day
The gardener walks his rows
Accounting for the buried that will burst to life
Speaking verdant into where only weeds grow
And the symphony of branched arms
Splay to touch his robes
Hoping, bracing for gifts from above
That only the gardener knows
