The lily had her pad.
The pea had her pod.
The vines had their trellis.
Even the rose, had her thorns.
The whole garden had the warm admiration of
All the flowers had their beloved.
But no one noticed the gardener,
who every day crept in silence,
brushing her footsteps away behind her,
tenderly pressing the vine to its lattice,
churning the soil beneath the peas and its pod,
brushing dew from lily pads,
coaxing the roses to nestle.
Moistening the leaves in the sun.
All the plants sprouted, never knowing why.
All the leaves unfurled bit by bit,
to awaken in perfect harmony with one another.
All the green grew abundantly.
While the gardener, unseen, unheard,
latched the gate at the end of every day,
returned from whence she came.
And in her cottage,
she had empty pots, no plants.
Room for love, where none would grow.
In the morning, to the garden she would go.