Maybe there is a garden in my thoughts.
I know my soul,
in deciding what to do,
will follow the way of light through the trees,
will seek the singing bird.
Will kneel in the loam and thank the fallow earth for seeds, trust the winds.
Yes, there is a garden in my thoughts. And I learn the seasons
by watching the leaves.
There is no noise,
but the breeze brushing the foliage, the bird’s call,
its forage for food amongst leaf mulch, the rustling of the
And I realise, everything is here, death, birth,
the spaciousness of life.
The rooted things,
that remind us to plant ourselves, branch out to a shape defined
by who we are,
the replication of cells, the grace gift, enough.
The pattern of leaves,
and the direction of veins –
a path to follow from root to tip.
And the singing bird,
making a home in the universe.
There is a garden in my thoughts.