The Garden


It is only a place.

A gracious place, somewhat chaotic;

But my sort of place.

Early morning is best.

Bird song and still air;

soft breeze and a kind sun.

It’s all growing well this year.

It was the mild winter:

they say.

But it did not grow.

It has died with the hint

of this season’s buds

in sight.

This year,

Its leaves, green and silver

will not give summer shade

or flare in autumn glory.

Stark and staggering,

it inclines toward

the earth from which

its roots have not drawn nurture.

But it will have its place;

it will fall in its own time.

It offers a strange beauty

In a vibrant Spring.

I must watch over its decline

as I delighted in its growing.

Why should that not also

grace the Garden?


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