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Pleased at what I see and hear and feel
Delighted at your laughter and your Joy
I wonder if it is love, what I feel
In my gut, and, dare I say it, in my heart.
I've always sneered at those who claim
Tumultous hearts with verbose perorations.
And in my icy cynicism
Their love letters were paper thin.
But here I am, whether by chance or design,
(at last, perhaps)
Upon a growing garden.
It was one seedling that I brushed aside
Amidst darkening doubt and self-obsession.
But that seedling grew and spread,
Always in the corner of my eye.
I dared not face the ripening buds
For many fears:
    My dark, shunting self would kill it.
    By sheer deceit I would claim it for my own. Yet
In moments of morning sunlight, I would have no harm come to it.
But protective feelings are not enough.
Today the garden is upon me, and
It gives me joy and heartache.
The world is now encased in frosted glass.

Perhaps I am not the steward. Not yet.
In the meantime, I wish sunshine and cool dew upon it.
I wish it free of blight and full of rich earth.
Until I understand its autumnal grief, its wintry sleep,
Its vernal mirth, its summer splendour,
I can only wish it well.

But then perhaps another gardener would have come.

16th March 2004