The Gardener

He trims the tangled bushes,
twists them, ties them,
talks quietly to them,
All the while savoring
the promise
of succulent purple fruit
to quench his thirst.

Supple branches
bow to his every whim,
Only a thorn portests
his manipulations,
A thick red drop of blood
crowns on his thumb;
He tastes the rich dark wine.

6 thoughts on “The Gardener

  1. BoardFlak

    “Only a thorn portests”

    This threw me, because I was thinking of grapes, but then blackberries also fit the description. A fine poem, Sarah.

    1. It’s funny, we did have a grape arbor too, but it was the blackberries that were used for wine.
      Many thanks, MIchael, for your ongoing support.

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