The Gardener

It's about self care, isn't it? The watering – the consequent flow – the subsequent growth. The idea of it sends a rush into withered crevices. Spaces where the soil is powder, and leaves bear all of the shape but none of the life. That realised, what next?
Find a source, I suppose.
That's when I discover that I am my own fountain. That, although it is dry now, if I look deep enough, there is an underground stream to which I am connected. That any water I might permit to enter and emit could return to hidden parts afresh, and make its way through the darkness and up through the system to emerge, again and again.
Cleaner.
Stronger.
That realised, where to begin?
The head, of course.
Everything flows from there.
Even that hidden river which has been driven out of sight.
Beyond sensation.
I imagine the dusty earth within would make way at first intrusion.
It would likely pass the leaves.
There could be breakage.
But I can hear the water now, and it says that this is okay.
That loss paves way for new life, and I picture something tender and green without needing to have that dictated to me.
That's when it becomes important to make the choice.
The one that lets the water in.
And consequently out.
And so I open the valve.
The soil does move at first.

The Gardener

The leaves are passed at slight trickle.
But I leave it flowing.
And as it does, I start to notice changes.
Are they molecular?
That is science, and it strikes me now that I have always been one for appreciating nature's beauty without wishing to know what brought it to fruition.
That may work for flowers not of my cultivation.
But I am the gardener now, and I realise that I need to learn what goes into making something bloom.
The soil is not moving now.
It has become overwhelmed by the moisture, and its make up has altered.
It is wet.
It is actively absorbing that which it attempted to avoid.
I see that the dead leaves have indeed broken.
That the water has carried them away.
That the soil is gathering.
And a stem remains.