the gardener

her arms
against the white
table cloth,
the veins
open in harsh
sunlight,
strings of blue
and violet,
with blotches
of brown,
like fallen
leaves,
roads she's
taken,
and left
behind.
the gardens
that she's tilled,
the loves
she's nourished
and set
free.
her life was
always in her
hands.
turning the earth
over each
spring to see
what might
come up, what
might survive
and be taken
within.