The Fragile Flowers Grow
The garden outside, love in the tending, simply to carry on in times continuum; such a peaceful state found here.
Weeds never stay long, before my hands pluck them from the soil. The heart shaped stones meant not to be trod upon, cast by our hands, swept clean of dusty remnants of life.
The bird feeders filled, the friends of the garden content on their daily visits. Oh so many a feathered friend journeys here, resting, bathing, pecking from seed to seed; their scattering flight always a welcome sight of life.
A beautiful place, thoughts drift in and out of the wildflower boarders, remember the day so well, the stone placed. The short message carved, time spent with life affirming hammer and chisel, “In this garden, love grows….”
All the nights, the bench beside the garden, the oak worn smooth in our continued sitting, the solitude of the evenings ours, our moments together spent. Under the Dipper so high and distant, we share our love of the night.
Tiny lights, pin prick holes, in the midnight blue sky, minute glimmers of heaven’s light; sitting on the oak slats. Moments turn into memories, one after the other, the warmth of our respectful embrace.
Mornings distant light comes, such heavenly lights glow, tiny halos around every open bud and blossom fills the garden like scantily seen little Angels dancing in the Venturan breeze; the awareness of each other, falling deeper, holding tighter. Each morning, we fall in love once more, accepting the day before our hearts as the gift it is; the foundation gathers the brawn of the new day, stronger evermore.
This garden still tended, in timeous passing, the beauty, a graceful nurturing of life; such beautiful existence fills every corner of the the garden. The scent of Gardinia arouses the leaves of the Aspen in the morning hour, when love blossoms open with the new day.
There is no toil in love, only time given and shared, I kneel in quiet contemplation, the passing of time, sweetened by your presence here with me. No tarnished remains, every weed removed, a small gentle landscape remains; hand in hand till eternitys end.
Looking at the empty bench, for no eyes but mine can see, it’s oak slats, holding so many memories; you are here with me.
Ah, the contemplation of life, should we so choose, in the quiet motion less the haste of the day. A garden of love built, formed in the unison caring of two pairs of hands, two hearts and two souls. The nurturing of our garden, from; within….