(for my daughter Heather)
The poet is in the garden
He has come to hear your confession
to grant you absolute pardons
He speaks to you in earth-tones
many sounding strange to your ears
A bird sings of the evergreen
Here there is time still to bud
and bear fruit in the garden
to turn into leaves and trees or flowers
here on this ever-changing land
Growing seasons have been known
to vary, but always recur in the annals
of earth With some sun and belief
in the garden, you too might grow
here in a summer of stems
There is so little time, though
The wind calls your name
and whispers of eternity
Clouds come and go
and the fence needs repainting
A poet is in the garden now
No one else will walk with him today
But the sun is surely good to all
and blinds his failing eyes
with a white warmth of wisdom