The Garden

Desolate. Almost.
Withered leaves, yellowed grass, leafless stems…
When were you last fed? When last your thirst sated?
I remember how beautiful it was:
The dark rich smell of the earth,
The vitality and life in the greens,
The birth of the cosmos in the timid petals of a bud;
But it has been so long and so much is still and dead.

It wasn‘t your fault. We did what we could.
And now I am back to be with you,
To see where we‘re at after all this.
That anything is left at all is a miracle,
That there is color and hope and life at all humbles me.
Yet so much has died:
Beautiful delicates of intricate texture beyond repair,
Bountiful borders now scraggly and struggling,
Fragrant herbs and succulent fruit
withered and lifeless resistant to the breeze.

Yet over there in its cedar bed a profusion of blossoms
And variegated leaves dance under the feet of bees,
And by my side a dahlia plant revives beneath sparkling drops of wet,
And on the wind a heady scent of the blood pink perfume of lilies.
The presence of death and the power of life in one small plot of land;
The scars of the past and the promise of tomorrow
All in this endless moment.
What will return? What will evolve?
This garden will never be the same.
Yet even in this ravaged ground
I delight to see and taste,
Amidst this stripped down land, its fruit.