With each passing day we grow.
In the garden my fingers graze the blades of grass
then down your face; stopping to tease a dimple.
You are fastidious as I, in turn, am a static stone.
Yet we hold each other in place,
like an anchor that has found it's way.
Even in the garden we cannot stop the clock.
And isn't that every one's wish?
To remain in time immemorial?
When He arrives time quickens
and we wish even greater to slow it's pace,
but for other reasons, better reasons.
The tyranny of time, how it's never in our favor;
or quite the contrary.
And in the garden we watch Him grow with the grass;
for we are no longer up in arms with time.