In wounded places, I sometimes dwell;
But yet, in a garden, I find all is well.
A man and a woman, a long time ago,
With God there beside them, in a garden did stroll.
Much later, our Savior, in deep agony,
Prayed — sweating blood — under a garden’s tree.
But, wonder of wonders, from death, did He not
Appear to a maiden? — “A gardener!” she thought.
Is heaven a garden? My heart seems to tell,
Such sweet heaven for me, in a garden to dwell.
I am a part-time gardener;
this reflects some of my experience.
I came upon a jungle ,
‘Twas hiding near a shed.
The vines o’er trees did tumble
And many vines were dead.
The dust was thick — caused coughing,
The dead leaves dense beneath;
The vines o’er shed were tumbling,
The sunlight they did seek.
Perhaps the vines were ancient,
Some dead and some alive;
A canopy they plaited;
O’er tree and shed they twined.
I hacked away, just thinking
The light I soon would see,
And cut blackberries underneath
On which no fruit could be.
What wonder! — I did notice
A rose beneath a vine,
And which privets obfuscated —
Still a true plant sublime.
So if you have blackberries,
Some privets, and some vines,
Just know that in the future
A jungle you may find.
I love the humble gardener,
His hair unkempt,
Holes in his shirt,
So down to earth.
[I say, “How have you been?”
He answers, “Just trying to survive.”]
I had an uncle,
His teeth stained, some missing,
From smoking too much.
At least he was real —
Are we real?
The little people,
Struggling to survive,
Just to keep alive.
Do we know them?