Constant Gardener.

I am a constant gardener, in a war with weeds, determined to keep my landscape green, although sometimes I dwell on dandelions to see the scatter of their seeds. 

All the tears I give the earth are roots that ground the tallest trees. 

Not threatened by thorns, with shears as my weapons,

I bloom like tulip bulbs in Spring.

Now that I stop to smell the flowers, I luxuriate in their lessons and count the blessings that they bring.

There’s no healing without feeling; life is suffering.

Bouncing back, real resilient, can be beautiful and rewarding.

Lush as palms, pinned to prayer, I place my patience in the soil. What survives neglect still bears the memory of toil. So I water every withered part I once abandoned out of shame, and learn that growth is not a grand performance— it is repetition, light, and rain.

Some seasons arrive as famine, some as floods that overfeed.

Some losses rip up whole foundations and salt the ground beneath. 

Still, I return, with dirt beneath my fingernails and hope between my teeth.

Because even gardens overrun by grief, thistles and weeds can recover their design. 

Even scorched fields can one day wear abundance like a second skin. 

Even I, after all this weather, can blossom again.