the prodigal gardener

Exhausted August lavender,
in monotone singing,
I planted two summers ago
only to abandon it ruefully
at season’s end
taking leave, also,
of myself. 
But here again,
I have discovered it
gasping for breath
but still being!
A comforting surprise.
My faith renewed
in the way of beauty,
taking root 
and enduring
the intermittent famines of love.
I am your prodigal gardener
having returned
to tend to you again.     
Can you ever forgive me?
And this is the purest grace –     
the fragrance that remains
in the woebegone flowers
of  drought.
Crushed between fingers,
the scent that reaches out
and grasps
the ever-open hands
of sacred dreams
that never departed
the heart.
Whispering soft,
in pallid purple 
“You are forgiven.”
 
 

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