A garden
for rest, respite, and revisiting thoughts -- or having no thoughts.
The flowers
whisper with me; be still as the wind bows down, a whiff, and a lighter,
heart-felt song of a stringed tempest.
A past that
is at once familiar: A window opens then shifts before my body-self can understand.
It’s all
right. Everything’s as it should be. The tempest came as I called it (just
now), tickling me.
I feel love wrapped in awe. Everything’s alive.
Thoughts
are most crucial and must be guided.
I guard,
and my guardian guards me, ancestors of the past?
I recall
these things as I sit in this garden, the flowers speak to me: watch and
listen, they show me. They do not “tell” me.
Pink slides
romantic notions, yellow and gold, the sun’s glory unfolds, deep pink in
longing and desire. Green heals; it absorbs and gives nourishment, ideas, and
inspiration.
White bleeding
hearts dip languidly, peacefully; everything around me, coalesces, more swirls
form, again, a tempest spins into this spot I sit in the garden.
