The Garden's Secret

Like the blossom in the bosom of spring,

Inhale the air, the brilliant scent

Breathing light does bring.

 

Unfolded pallets, artist’s nature sees

The sense of sight without a scene,

The smell of colors, white canvas dreams,

Tangible meadows, intangible greens,

Inevitable petals absorb what it means

To reflect meaning.

Waves no longer stay at lengths, they cling

To the shore, forevermore hear

Truth be told as they crash and sing.

Rainbows sure are a beautiful ‘thing’.

 

Flowers know May by name

But May be named by flowers,

Relatives by wonder and wither,

Offspring of seconds and hours.

This unity has beauty, but so it still remains

That beauty is in the unity which precedes these prior claims,

In the colors of carnations that lay in shallow graves,

In gardens still unborn, in seeds asleep during the day,

In the aroma  of colors, in flowers left unnamed, unknown.

Today has found its home.

Reviews

[Ed Hart]

written between the planes of mind, where the muse lives, and songs, and the root of what comes to be