my gardener

a witness to
your fragile knit frame on white cloth
spring
as a cucumber
the thistles will shriek
their tiny voices
&
the stand-out yellow ones
may
be weeds
but no-one really notices
when the sky
melodies into your eyes
dew
lit up your soft leafed neck
my skinny hand
finds
the smallness of your back
as if
i can heal you