(for my daughter Heather)
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 go
and the fence needs painting.
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.