The Garden Of Machines Poem by Michael Timothy Rose

The garden of machines
New only one
Master gardener,

The steward
Who planted the seeds,
Spruced the eroded leaves
And replaced the ones he took.

He was not a god
This gatekeeper,
But he twisted and grew the presence of one.

He was a black smith.
But in the Garden of Machines,
He told the stories of greatness
And of past great machines, and he created
The mystery of the Soil. He spoke like a god,
and manipulated water and objects like a god;
He prevented erosion in the garden
And worry; and he produced energy
And gave it to the garden when it felt most weary
And weathered.

And one day,
Like a human,
He died in the garden.
And no single plant knew how
A God could die.