The Gardener.

I’m still finding words. Here is a poem about my feelings.

I am a gardener. During the day, I plant seeds, till the soil, and pray for equal amounts of rain and sunshine. There is dirt beneath my fingernails, and my clothes are soiled. No one sees me, but my work is unforgettable. My Love is a cook. Each day, she wakes up before the sun. She makes miracles out of ingredients, feeds the souls of the hungry, and brings joy to all who are able to enjoy her art. Her hands are calloused from consistently washing the dishes she uses to make her miracles. Her hair smells of the gifts that she gives to all that she serves. Her clothes are soiled with food and oil. No one sees her, but her work is unforgettable. When the night comes, we shower, change, and remove our masks. She washes my feet, and me, I wash her hair. She praises me for my strength, and me, I offer blessings and thanks for her Strength, Love and Beauty. Even though most don’t see us, we clearly see one another. We are air. We inhale Love and Exhale pain. We are air…. (This is the average Black Experience.)

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