*Gardening at Night*

This is the gentlest of nights,
When the moon is out, and its fullness softens the edges
of what seemed at day to be more cruel than anything.

This is the time he walks up the lane
The man who carries the seed of the dream
	the noble urge to make it all a place of belonging
	everyone in motion in the great machine of his artifice;

Every so often, the dark man bends down and spreads his fingers
 into the cool night earth;
		digs down deep;
Where he sets down, the roots weave a sturdy base.
Where he pulls up, the ground is clean of remnants.

Where his meandering path at first seems to be chosen with a sort of
 	haphazard grace,
 The reasons come slowly to light.
What he leaves, he leaves strong.
What he curses will die.
  What is left will flourish in the space it has been given.
That is the way of things-- the skill of the dark man.
	
The man walks alone, but he carries the seeds of the dream.
 For each house that he passes, the sleeping stir uneasily in 
	their beds, the full moon howling in their dreams.
  Those that are awake watch him go by.  
No one dares join him, though there are a few that wonder what
 it would be like to lay down with him.
  He is as Absolom, the beautiful child of David, the child who
   raised his hand against his father and was thrown down onto
	the fire.
Those that lay with him would share his bed of hot coals.
 This thought is enough to quell the desires of most, 
but not all.

Of this he is aware.  It changes nothing.

This is the gentlest of nights.
The cool breeze makes a slow companion to his thoughts.
Leaves whisper carefully, attuned to his footsteps.
The shadows will rise up to give him cover 
	from the light of day, 
		more cruel than anything.


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