a garden called near

there’s a garden that’s close,
whose proximity is both palpable and pending,
this garden is near.

seed hugged by soil,
dirt shaped by careful hands,
warmth and water peeling away outer shells.

nearness the balm,
touch the salve,
holding is healing here.

look, see things like the nearsighted,
broken looks beautiful,
low looks courageous,
weak looks strong,
the desperate, now tenderly delicate.

this close means new things happen,
proximity of a rub generates the ignition.
burning away of former things,
fuels the fire,
the hearth of the heart.
a low and slow warming welcome,
whistling and cracking passion,
more a melting, softening blanket,
than the temporary flash of a spark.

the garden parts to this aisle,
the arrival, this altar,
burning the planks of the eye,
my handcrafted figures,
my carved images,
treasured trophies,
all far better fuels and fragrances,
than foundations under my feeble legs.

there’s no need to stand here anyway,
in this near garden.
sit here, melt here.
lean against the tree,
it’s held far weightier before.

then dropped near,
fruit of this tree,
a delicacy always hungered for,
displacing the bitter palate i need no more.
the soil here, right now,
perfect conditions to grow that piece,
and for the gardener to call my name,
see me there,
in that place.

yet the soil has a foreign feel,
nutrients like this categorically different,
saturated by a level of dew,
beyond anything this plant ever knew.

but here, always near,
hands that bring healing,
planting with the balm,
sowing with the salve,
sprouting with a touch.

the garden’s call is close,
the temperature warm,
the climate calculated,
more keeps growing,
according to the source abiding.

again, alas,
weeds of fear,
thorns of dark pigment,
all strive and stretch and grab,
seeing this garden pleasing,
territory lusted after.
yet soil conditions
consistently found suboptimal.
these pests thirsty as ever,
sharp and persistent,
but choked out every time.

seems the gardener knows
what should and shouldn’t grow here.
hand over hand,
hand in hand,
tilling the soil until,
’til the weeds become fertilizer,
’til the thorns become crowns.
’til hope grows here.
’til love comes near.

this garden’s name is here,
reigns with coming rains,
flowers as small tokens
of the coming flourishing,
the atmosphere is telling.
till. dig. sow. water.
’til the hands dirty and callused,
what’s rooted will be established,
this dirt becomes a dwelling.

intimate is the soil,
proximity is where the magic happens.
these touch points,
these liminal thresholds,
thinly common and sacred,
in and out level closeness.
so stay close, fear not.
breaking through the surface,
reaching for a fresh breath,
coming up out of the waters,
formed in dirt,
in this garden of nearness,
is this sprout of belovedness.