Those who know less of me may call
you my Master
But I am not a pristine canvas
waiting for your choice of colors,
your preference of brush.
Nor am I an empty vessel
anticipating that your thoughts
will fill my void.
Or a clean sheet of parchment
waiting quietly for your words
to give me definition and depth.
Does a bulb, snug in the earth's embrace
await the gardener's choice of color
before bursting forth in bloom?
Is a flame's intensity determined
by the wick that slowly draws oil
from the depth of the lamp?
Does a leaf, clinging to the maple
consider the sun's preference of pattern
before blazing headstrong into its fall
You are my gardener,