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,

twisting absurd

mangling shapes,

evoking 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.