One side of me is hunched
from the weight of The Watering Can
that I've used to help Your Garden grow
from little more than sand.
The first seeds I planted were Carnations,
whose sickly sweet scent burned my nose.
But, the sacrifice of My Petals
was not enough to make the flowers grow.
The next time I planted Marigolds,
caring for each and every blossom until it hurt,
cutting myself on the rocks and roots
hidden beneath the overmoistened dirt.
Despite the pain, I tended and toiled
with the Hyacinth I nestled into the ground.
It blossomed for many long seasons.
Then, it withered without a sound.
I did all I could to keep Your Garden green.
My body twisting as The Can pulled me down.
I planted Petunias and Poppies
just to watch them each turn brown.
In this last attempt to grow Your Garden,
I planted grass both tall and thin.
It grew vibrant and lush,
but the smallest touch sliced my skin.
One side of me is hunched
from the weight of tending Your Garden alone.
When I turn to seek more water,
I see the barren land that is my own.
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