Garden

How do you leave your own garden –
the years of nurture, slowly sculpted paths and places?
How do you leave the garden’s gentle answer,
its soft reward like a lover’s sigh?
Perhaps you pivot on a leathery heel
like a compass needle moving shakily.
Perhaps you hold your chin high
avoiding the garden’s many eyes.

Leaving is easy, as journeys are easy
to begin – just one foot in front of another,
but it’s the living without, waking too early,
lost for a moment, and a sudden ache,
remembrance, and your garden’s green call
like a fledgling chick, a wilting leaf;
like Adam for his maker.

Be still and know it never was your garden.
You were a temporary janitor.
Be still and know it will grow and evolve,
but cease to be the thing you shaped
and after years of separation,
be like a friend so changed you will be puzzled
at old alliance, as puzzled as God might be
by what he once created.

Roundhill-Cottage-Garden

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