Tender Greens

a poem

In the garden,  have you ever bore witness
to delicate tendrils reaching out,   hopeful.

But there is only emptiness,  so you already know 
there is nothing to hold on to.    And still it grows.

Body largely unsecured, shaky, and susceptible
to storm fall,    because the only other choice is

to wilt and yellow—save a kind nudge 
from the Gardener,  a redirection 
                                       from fellow flowers.

N.J. SIMAT