Tender

Let me be tender. Let me soften    
my hold. Give up topiary
and dogma. Let me be tender

as light – dark-breaking to dusk 
glisk – and water – enough to nourish
not burn, swamp. Let me be

tender, calm. Let me loosen harm
from my body, the garden,
the whole world’s yard. Let me

be tender enough to leave 
untended what blossoms without		
my zealous hand, my watering-can. Let 

me be tender, the way a plant ally
floats close over the footpath,
giving itself, balm. Let me be tender:

mother of chamomile, champion 
of lavender, whorl and corolla 
of a daughter’s laughter. Let me be

tender, a gentle evictor 
of what scoffs basil at night, reduces 
to skeleton anyone’s freedom. Let me 

be tender as a nurse among nurses,
from axil to bract, quiet
on my feet, a pact to be attentive. Let 

me honour the trace of her cells 
forever in my tissues, blood. And to all
that heals, let me be tender.