The Gardener

I love to watch
the plants grow,
she said -
her torso draped
in that black t-shirt
and shrouded
by the lingering night.

The sun had yet
to crest
in the valley
below our ridge.

Out of the saturated earth
in the small yogurt cups,
the tender shoots
stretched fragile arms:
broccoli, pepper,
basil, jalepeno.

Tiny miracles,
barely standing
in so much dark,
in the early morning,
in the quiet adoration
of the gardener's heart.