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