The Gardener

Memory
like a fragile blossom
blooms
then fades
then is forgotten.

Still,
I will plant
the hopeful seedling
though I know
it’s gift is fleeting.

I will still
breathe
the gentle scent
though I know
it’s transient.

I will still marvel
at the flower,
revel in
its glory hour.

I will still
kiss
its velvet leaves
and, with its wilting
will I grieve.

But I will plant
that seedling still,
bending to
a higher will.