Tell me the secret of sweet fruit on the stem Was it the seed, or the rain, or the rays of time Or the soil, or the flower that withered to none Or the greenness that yearned toward ripe red in the sun In the hush of leaves, by the breath of the world. Almost a quarter of a century ago, I was privileged to move to a small island that had the early makings of a garden. More than thirty years before, an old man for whom this place was therapy for depression had planted some flowers that tolerated the rocky, dry soil. After over twenty years of tending this garden with the help of pollinating insects, I have watched it become a small paradise that in June-July defies the wildest imagination.
In between the heavier poetry and prose in this blog, this is the story of a garden in spontaneous unedited images and butterfly words. It's all play, but that is survival in the most challenging of times. Through play we experience perspectives that change us and our relationships to the world around us. In a garden there is rhythm but also the promise of a new way.
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To be there before the storm And the turning of the light hours When the lake becomes memory soup That harks to The Beginning. The swallows swoop like starfighters Over roses succumbed to scents, colors, petals loosening And ants delirious with the sweetness As the sea hawk eyes the birch swaying in the first wind. Almost a quarter of a century ago, I was privileged to move to a small island that had the early makings of a garden. More than thirty years before, an old man for whom this place was therapy for depression had planted some flowers that tolerated the rocky, dry soil. After over twenty years of tending this garden with the help of pollinating insects, I have watched it become a small paradise that in June-July defies the wildest imagination.
In between the heavier poetry and prose in this blog, this is the story of a garden in spontaneous unedited images and butterfly words. It's all play, but that is survival in the most challenging of times. Through play we experience perspectives that change us and our relationships to the world around us. In a garden there is rhythm but also the promise of a new way. Life unfolded, layer upon layer, Lined with experience incomplete Without seeing another's unfolding, Layer upon layer, in colors that bind. Almost a quarter of a century ago, I was privileged to move to a small island that had the early makings of a garden. More than thirty years before, an old man for whom this place was therapy for depression had planted some flowers that tolerated the rocky, dry soil. After over twenty years of tending this garden with the help of pollinating insects, I have watched it become a small paradise that in June-July defies the wildest imagination.
In between the heavier poetry and prose in this blog, this is the story of a garden in spontaneous unedited images and butterfly words. It's all play, but that is survival in the most challenging of times. Through play we experience perspectives that change us and our relationships to the world around us. In a garden there is rhythm but also the promise of a new way. How hard it is to be one's own To insist on wings that might fly you to the moon Or wear ten hats when the naysayers chant, "one!" To withdraw to your chamber when the world says, "out!" And stay cool and clear on a white hot day As the mauve sky over the shimmering lake. Almost a quarter of a century ago, I was privileged to move to a small island that had the early makings of a garden. More than thirty years before, an old man for whom this place was therapy for depression had planted some flowers that tolerated the rocky, dry soil. After over twenty years of tending this garden with the help of pollinating insects, I have watched it become a small paradise that in June-July defies the wildest imagination.
In between the heavier poetry and prose in this blog, this is the story of a garden in spontaneous unedited images and butterfly words. It's all play, but that is survival in the most challenging of times. Through play we experience perspectives that change us and our relationships to the world around us. In a garden there is rhythm but also the promise of a new way. Once I dreamed of islands and atolls in the vast ocean Of the innermost cell of secrets beyond knowledge Of the coral reef or the night sky Under which the leopard runs Outstretched across the grassland. Almost a quarter of a century ago, I was privileged to move to a small island that had the early makings of a garden. More than thirty years before, an old man for whom this place was therapy for depression had planted some flowers that tolerated the rocky, dry soil. After over twenty years of tending this garden with the help of pollinating insects, I have watched it become a small paradise that in June-July defies the wildest imagination.
In between the heavier poetry and prose in this blog, this is the story of a garden in spontaneous unedited images and butterfly words. It's all play, but that is survival in the most challenging of times. Through play we experience perspectives that change us and our relationships to the world around us. In a garden there is rhythm but also the promise of a new way. In the whisper of a spiral That unfurls in the dance No clash, no interruption, No troubling footprint. Outside, heat melts steel But here you are mild, In the house of glass windows The tenderness of life. Almost a quarter of a century ago, I was privileged to move to a small island that had the early makings of a garden. More than thirty years before, an old man for whom this place was therapy for depression had planted some flowers that tolerated the rocky, dry soil. After over twenty years of tending this garden with the help of pollinating insects, I have watched it become a small paradise that in June-July defies the wildest imagination.
In between the heavier poetry and prose in this blog, this is the story of a garden in spontaneous unedited images and butterfly words. It's all play, but that is survival in the most challenging of times. Through play we experience perspectives that change us and our relationships to the world around us. In a garden there is rhythm but also the promise of a new way. She'd kept up, and grown high and tall, And thought she'd reached the pinnacle, But looked across the land and wept: Why was she here? What use was there? A blade of grass, so meek so strong, A stranger with no airs at all, Stood steadfast by and took the breeze And gave a friend the gift of peace. Almost a quarter of a century ago, I was privileged to move to a small island that had the early makings of a garden. More than thirty years before, an old man for whom this place was therapy for depression had planted some flowers that tolerated the rocky, dry soil. After over twenty years of tending this garden with the help of pollinating insects, I have watched it become a small paradise that in June-July defies the wildest imagination.
In between the heavier poetry and prose in this blog, this is the story of a garden in spontaneous unedited images and butterfly words. It's all play, but that is survival in the most challenging of times. Through play we experience perspectives that change us and our relationships to the world around us. In a garden there is rhythm but also the promise of a new way. Two days, two nights I watched in terror, As the lovers cast their fates together. For the greatest mystery of them all, New life, I'd watch and wait forever. Almost a quarter of a century ago, I was privileged to move to a small island that had the early makings of a garden. More than thirty years before, an old man for whom this place was therapy for depression had planted some flowers that tolerated the rocky, dry soil. After over twenty years of tending this garden with the help of pollinating insects, I have watched it become a small paradise that in June-July defies the wildest imagination.
In between the heavier poetry and prose in this blog, this is the story of a garden in spontaneous unedited images and butterfly words. It's all play, but that is survival in the most challenging of times. Through play we experience perspectives that change us and our relationships to the world around us. In a garden there is rhythm but also the promise of a new way. The red giants of first summer Had one solemn task To shed beauty for wisdom Before come of dusk. Some of them shut themselves Others breathed fire But a messenger of eternal life Convinced them of the divine. Almost a quarter of a century ago, I was privileged to move to a small island that had the early makings of a garden. More than thirty years before, an old man for whom this place was therapy for depression had planted some flowers that tolerated the rocky, dry soil. After over twenty years of tending this garden with the help of pollinating insects, I have watched it become a small paradise that in June-July defies the wildest imagination.
In between the heavier poetry and prose in this blog, this is the story of a garden in spontaneous unedited images and butterfly words. It's all play, but that is survival in the most challenging of times. Through play we experience perspectives that change us and our relationships to the world around us. In a garden there is rhythm but also the promise of a new way. Almost a quarter of a century ago, I was privileged to move to a small island that had the early makings of a garden. More than thirty years before, an old man for whom this place was therapy for depression had planted some flowers that tolerated the rocky, dry soil. After over twenty years of tending this garden with the help of pollinating insects, I have watched it become a small paradise that in June-July defies the wildest imagination.
In between the heavier poetry and prose in this blog, this is the story of a garden in spontaneous unedited images and butterfly words. It's all play, but that is survival in the most challenging of times. Through play we experience perspectives that change us and our relationships to the world around us. In a garden there is rhythm but also the promise of a new way. Garden Story #1: A hungry spider waited for a succulent meal to come And as she waited on thistle Gathered all the rays of the sun. |
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April 2024
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