In the garden

 
 
 

In the garden
rags and broken bits,
trailing paper ribbons,
shards and excrement,
weave a picture, a scene
a thumbreel of protected vision.
The garden grows
though abandoned by light
and conscious thought.
Tangles give way to magical gates.
Imaginary flowers bloom,
twist absurd
mangling shapes,
evoke scents
unknowable in common categories.
Once the garden was ripe and lush,
fed legions,
earned prizes in the canons
of great literature.
If other gardens vied in performance,
it was for the grander glory of gardenhood.
Abundance
Lovers trysting
Children’s play
Old philosophers walking,
speaking deliberately, deeply,
breathing in heaven.
A garden of substance,
tradition and grace
where sore of heart might
find tender comfort, growing wild
in sweet evening breeze,
a calming call to prayer,
mending meditation
on the ways of Earth and sky and rain.
Walking the garden,
old, papery, withered of breath,
dreaming yesterdays, tomorrows,
screaming silently
a hope too desperate to speak
for vibrant new seeds
to take root.

.

.

.

Advertisements

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s