"Gods Garden"
by M. Slater
It is hard to love a garden well
once you've actually lost one,
watched it destroyed,
first by neglect,
then dug up,
discarded.
It was a real beautiful space
eight X twenty plot on the
Epiphany church plaza.
Emily named it first:
"Gods Garden"
for worship.
In dreams sometimes I recall
the long line of black sage,
its miraculous blue
just springing up
annually, lasting
past first frost.
Golden Coreopsis in profusion,
branched and spreading
as regular as the moon,
drought tolerant,
brave and true.
So reliable.
Emily was the first creator-Mother.
When she retired I kept up.
Twenty years with her
fifteen for me alone;
thirty five years
of loving care.
All the weeding, pruning, planting,
seed spreading, mulching,
feeding liquid seaweed,
watering labors, love,
so suddenly
gone.
This sad story has a happy end.
It was the right time for me
to let go and move on
and I would not trade
one millisecond of it
for a pot of gold.
I have the image of field daisies
glowing in the dark city night,
nothing so rewarding as it.
Oh, scent of Phlox blooms
perfuming mornings
shamelessly!
I can still feel the softness of ferns
holding waving stands of Astilbe
and big cone flowers too.
There's dried fever-few
in musty closets
still working.
Every garden is a grand cathedral,
an altar dedicated to the earth.
From simple flower pots
to window boxes to
little patches or
full acres.
I retain the whole of the experience
in every single cell of my being.
All I gave, gave me more.
The light in my eyes
is sunrise held,
sunsets too.
If you're wounded or well my friend,
go to a garden and join in.
Bring friends as well,
share what is good.
Give it away and
nothing is gone.
by M. Slater
It is hard to love a garden well
once you've actually lost one,
watched it destroyed,
first by neglect,
then dug up,
discarded.
It was a real beautiful space
eight X twenty plot on the
Epiphany church plaza.
Emily named it first:
"Gods Garden"
for worship.
In dreams sometimes I recall
the long line of black sage,
its miraculous blue
just springing up
annually, lasting
past first frost.
Golden Coreopsis in profusion,
branched and spreading
as regular as the moon,
drought tolerant,
brave and true.
So reliable.
Emily was the first creator-Mother.
When she retired I kept up.
Twenty years with her
fifteen for me alone;
thirty five years
of loving care.
All the weeding, pruning, planting,
seed spreading, mulching,
feeding liquid seaweed,
watering labors, love,
so suddenly
gone.
This sad story has a happy end.
It was the right time for me
to let go and move on
and I would not trade
one millisecond of it
for a pot of gold.
I have the image of field daisies
glowing in the dark city night,
nothing so rewarding as it.
Oh, scent of Phlox blooms
perfuming mornings
shamelessly!
I can still feel the softness of ferns
holding waving stands of Astilbe
and big cone flowers too.
There's dried fever-few
in musty closets
still working.
Every garden is a grand cathedral,
an altar dedicated to the earth.
From simple flower pots
to window boxes to
little patches or
full acres.
I retain the whole of the experience
in every single cell of my being.
All I gave, gave me more.
The light in my eyes
is sunrise held,
sunsets too.
If you're wounded or well my friend,
go to a garden and join in.
Bring friends as well,
share what is good.
Give it away and
nothing is gone.
~^~
