The Tender

My soul but the withered husk of a vine in a vineyard, but please, sweet gardener, nurture my soul. I'll be thine and give thee my fruit. You'll be my tender and I your provider, your shade in the heat of the day. And your confidant by night that you may wish and talk with me. I'll listen, and may the winds give me voice that I may advise you in the ways you shall go.