(for my daughter 25 years ago)
The poet is in the garden.
He has come to hear your dreams
to bless your green endeavours.
He speaks to you in earth-tones
many sounding strange to your ears.
A bird sings of the cedars.
Here there is still time to bud
and bear fruit in the garden,
to turn into leaves or flowers
thus, on the ever-changing land.
Growing seasons have been known
to vary, but always recur in the annals
of earth. With more sun and belief
in the garden, you too might grow
in a summer of stems and blossoms.
There is so little time, though.
The wind calls your name
and whispers of eternity.
Clouds come and fade away
like the fence in need of paint.
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.