Gardener

A gardener stoops, as ‘neath his hand,

So small a sprout from barren sand

Is springing forth, in gold sunlight,

To leaves unfurl, and blossom bright.

Long fallow sat the bone-dry soil,

That heeded not the plowman’s toil,

Nor the groundsmen’s striving so

To break the earth and let things grow.

No, not ’til gardener’s softest stroke,

The spell of dust and ash he broke,

Did flowers spring and cleansing rain

Quench all the thirsty land again.