Life is a garden

Dedicated with love to: Great-Pepere

Life is a garden, and we’re the seeds in which He plants.

We grow, intertwine, wind round, up and down each other… blooming into his desires. He measures our fate in water and sweat, tending to us as any gardener would.

Yet, this is no ordinary garden! NO!

It is a place full of weeds and thorny vines enrapturing stalks of green that twist into an explosion of beautiful buds, freckled with nectar and kissed with the monotone song of the bee.

 Every pollinated center of life, every petal of fertility whispers their love to the next, to their own seeds, in the form of a lovely fragrance that can almost be tasted in sweet honey droplets.

The roots in which many grow furrow themselves into the earth stubbornly, clinging onto their eternal existence and sucking up an elixir of crisp cold moss-skimmed water which adds a merry bubble to the tunes of the garden.

They also scrabble and fight among themselves for silly things, such as depth, land, and the economy of water.

Above ground a similar war wages for the power of the sun which hangs as the purest orb of gold hired by God to feed His children, and despite the claustrophobia of the overpopulated soil, and the violence of the venomous ivy that chokes it’s neighbor in the battle for air, the garden is quite peaceful.

 Spiraling shaggy trees spring up and stand patiently as peas and beans creep around its base, using the smooth silvery bark as a crutch to stay aloft.

Sunflowers and poppies smile upon each other and bath warmth unto even the most rebellious grass that seems to attack no matter what you do.

 Even the rocks, pure white, that line the rows invisible to the human eye amongst the garden, allow soft mosses and mushrooms to use them as supports, slowly sliding along the rock’s surface and providing nests and dwellings for various bugs and worms.

Besides the bee, who hums through his day dancing to a lullaby of his own rhythm over the garden, a sharp sweet clear orchestra of bright breasted birds whistle and call to the twisting tendrils of emerald below them in perfect harmony, while plants themselves seem to grow off from every note, wrapping their roots firmly around the tranquility that even the crows appear to resonate.

And God, in the evening, will dance through the rows and harvest a list with the most respectfully gracious motions, laying out the bodies of the entangled products.

He will cry, long sad sighs of dreadful mourning, pacing about the garden and shedding them unto the jungle of wildlife, praying for the souls and His hunger to vanish so that he may not have to summon His children, His art, His labor from the earth in which He bore them.

I. . .I have a problem

And a big one too

“Well come in then

And sit on my couch

I’ll listen.”

It lurks down under

Deep in my heart,

But I know not it’s name.

“What made this so?”

I know not,

But I have lost many

Family,

Friends,

Values.

All that remain are riches.

“I see,

Might it be such riches

That cause such loss?”

I think not;

That’s absurd!

Greed doesn’t destroy!

I’m leaving!