Before you are given a body,

God takes you to his boundless garden.

God tells you to count the violets.

The flowers look soft to the touch,

their petals thin. The soil looks dry to you,

but what do you know of blossoming?

You feel God watching as you count the first row,

and then he leaves you to your work.

The garden clock is made of turtle shells and wind

and it will spin for a thousand years while you count

and for a thousand years after—

The last row has one more violet than the rest 

and you think you know what that means.

After all, you faced each upswept petal and thought:

I will see the sun rising for this many days.

You read each heart-shaped leaf as a child to be,

each stem held up a pollen-dusted map of the world.

But this isn’t about symbols. God just

doesn’t have much time to garden anymore.

He just needs to know how much fertilizer to order.

Some people come into this world so weary already.