A Prophet in the Garden
 

As above, so below

As orange, so blue
Hands holding, hands giving

Hands being held too

Me, somewhat cut off until now
From my relationship to nature and creation
I rise from the remains of a broken home
A king of my own peaceful disposition

Clasping a feastful of flowers 

A banquet bouquet
I arrived in the beak of a bird
The same bird they murdered one day

Now, I wash my hands of the act
To only get them dirty in the earth
Knowing everyone meets a prophet in the garden
And I’ve been digging since birth

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by Chris Auret