The Messy-Handed Gardener

He’s a messy-handed gardener, 

     his fingers clothed in dirt – 

reaching into muck, 

     digging deeply into earth. 


His hands aren’t pristine, covered 

     in gloves of satin white, 

Instead, it is his sweaty face

     that sheds a lively light. 


Stiff weeds that often flourish 

     fingers ever find to kill – 

struggles fought with thorns and brambles, 

     to bring their clutching lives to nill. 


He’s a messy-handed gardener, 

    bringing beauty in the mud, 

pruning back the weeds from roses, 

     cherishing their weakest buds. 


– written in Geneva, 20 mai 2014