There I lay, among so many others like me, in my death unknowing. the debris of other lives and of time around us. in our own darkness where we witnessed second hand light not knowing that it was second hand, not knowing what living was because our lives were shrouded in death and we thought that this was all. then he came along, the gardener. he stopped and looked. bent down. reached out. and deliberately picked me out and up. I marked his hand with the dirt I wore. he cleaned me up and set me safe. in time, he took me out and with the sharpest knife he pierced the vine and secured into the wound. he bound me to be held firm as the blood from the stem poured over me. then life began to flow, and I began to grow and see. but I’m no good I cried and prayed, but I’m too gnarled. I saw the stem, so pure and clean I saw my knots, my bumps, my filth. my life was filled, I felt the sun and leaves grew strong and there were buds. the stick that lived among the dead now had new life, real life. and bore fruit. not because of the stick but because of the vine. and the gardener came and rejoiced as he celebrated the fruit that was produced from the life of the vine through me.