There is truth in the garden and it’s speaking in tongues.
There’s steadiness in the rocks
sitting in the sun,
saying how peace is easy
if you know how.
There are murmurings of sweetness in the apple tree
filling up roundly
like molasses.
There’s zeal ripening in the tomatoes
and purpose in the pumpkin vine
trampling its way to freedom.
There is inner city grit in the hydrangea
struggling to bloom
in its chewed up dress and tortured feet.
There is grace in the grass that was cut
-yet again-
to an inch of its life
and will not stop stretching upwards.
There is no pause in the pine tree,
too big for its pot
and strumming with life,
in its half-meter kingdom.
Only green and growing
gratitude.
Whatever is speaking
here knows its art.
Wanderlust and bloodshed,
audacity and awe.
Minimal hesitation.
No regret.
I want to speak that language
too.
Posted by kind permission of the poet. The image is courtesy of Warren Wong.
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