The Gardener

Those hands had turned the soil for years,

Making them strong,

Making them hard.

Making them tanned,

Making them scarred.

But still they wiped away her tears like no other hands could do.

 

That face had borne the brunt of time,

Wrinkled by wind,

Wrinkled by sun,

Wrinkled by grief,

Wrinkled and done!

But still it lit up shining and bright whenever he chanced a smile.

 

That heart had beaten as much as it could,

Beaten for love,

Beaten with cheer,

Beaten by tiredness,

Beaten in fear.

And no other heart could replace that heart the day that beating stopped.

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