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. 
After all... 
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 glory? 
You are my gardener, 
My wick, 
My sun, 
My love. 


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