the gardener

delicate hands set with loam, as a table is set;
drizzled with the dew of morning
as sweet as syrup touching tongue.

you've dug deep into the cavernous breast of this earth,
pressed fingers to the walls of rich soil;
prepared a place for each guest.

when i am with you i am planted.
green vines spring from toes;
leaves comb into hair, feather to the ground, falling

as longing falls into the pit of stomach,
disorienting the body's movement in a day, until
you invite me to sit at the seat carved into the dirt of your spirit,

and i am freed,
to be grounded, freed
to breath in sky, soak in rain wet with the residue of life

still clinging to my skin, as a lover clings
to love between two souls; the space held not yet
with hands, but with receptivity.