I plant another garden; sow seeds and pips. Dirt stains my knees and my fingertips. I go inside, escape the all-seeing sun and erase any trace of ***** work I've done. I don't know why my hands are raw and dry. Cracking at the seams of my skin, revealed myself to be wrist-deep in sin. I planted my garden, but at what cost? What flowers grow when the gardener is lost?