a soft, garden home

The gardener and their trowel

 made way through the peat-silt earth

  to sow a burgeoning growth

   —a to-be flower to flower.

The soil, with every dig, let loose a growl

 against the shaving steel, building a berth

  for the plant to make a season’s oath

   to be a flower and flower.

The gardener is nothing without their metal dirt-prowl,

 and so too does the tool find in them a shared worth

  for to garden, one must have being and spade both

   and to flower, be first a flower.

We are each the gardener and the trowel,

 and so too are we the plants mid-birth.

  To you, I stead my troth;

   Beside you, Flower, I flower.