I rose early before the heat,
while the grass, still wet with dew,
glistened in watery dreams.

Clawing out weeds that would
choke the heart of such singular
beauty – black dirt clinging to hands
and forearms. Sweat dripping a 
salty prayer. I protect the tender bud.

My lisianthus, a flower so much
like a rose, with fleshy unfurling petals,
sans thorns and trellis, do not
like their roots disturbed.
No one really does. Do they?

In another garden, toil and words
are lost on the rootless man.
He carries his hate in a golden suitcase,
opens it in his paved garden,
and says, “How beautiful.”

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