Freedom and love I sow
as gardner of my own heart.
I weave the rows of footsteps
to dance with self and others.
I weave a blanket like delicate cloud
to send it outward in breath.
Out to the world to end war
separation and greed.
Out so all mankind shifts
into their hearts.
Out so one may be showered
with seeds of love
so new gardens for peace can grow.
I think that I might've been wrong this whole time
and that all my life's been an endless road of false imagery
about myself and the ones surrounding me.
Everyone's sayin' these days:
"just do your thing!"
"be more egotistic!"
"live a little!"
"give less shits about what others think!"
"you're on your own!"
"don't get involved in other's lives, as they don't get involved in yours"
and I seem more and more confused,
not getting any of the words they're sayin';
feeling silly all of a sudden...
like I imagine some people in those pictures
or videos where they put a black box over someone's eyes.
I feel like I've been livin' as a small,
odorless flower in a big garden,
all a long waiting for the right gardener
to thin out the seedlings around me and now
I've ended up alone in the most beautiful vase,
in the house of the most gifted perfume creator,
that normally feels every bird fart,
but now feels nothing.
The main landscape gardener is Mother Nature herself
and from time immemorial she has been working alone;
through wind, rain, hail and shine, even in the upheaval
of the earth and with the movement of the ocean waves.
She thus continuously works and does the only thing
of her vocation that she is qualified to do without any
notions of right or wrong and cause for regret but is
found to be blameworthy in the damage that she causes
unwittingly in going about doing what she has been
allotted to do through no real fault of her own volition
but in absolute and unwavering obedience to that infinite
power and intelligence pervading all of space and time.
There blew winds of change,
Immoral they made me forget,
Forget the pure form of love.
Entwined around this heart,
The dreadful poisonous creeper,
How they suck all life inside.
Perhaps you misunderstood,
Blaming someone else I am not,
Because I was the gardener.
Through the rain stained glass,
With a sickly purple hue,
I can see early marsh orchid,
And it makes me think of you.
The gardener's son
Is looking at it too,
His sickly grey suit
Makes me think of you.
I was not born a bog child,
I was only passing through,
The Irish Lady's Tresses
Made me think of you.
Three years ago, standing in the garden of life, a butterfly landed perfectly in my hands. It flew from above and behind me, gracefully hovering itself down as if it were landing on a surface that might be unstable for its fragile little legs.
Slowly descending closer to my hands, I felt its feet graze the surface of my skin like it was testing out the waters of my spirit.
Fluttering over my hands, it kept its wings at metronome-like tempo, and my heart began to follow the same rhythm. It was almost like seeing a butterfly for the first time in my life.
Although I knew there were other ones out there, I admired everything about this butterfly like it was the only one in the world that mattered.
I couldn’t speak butterfly at the time, but I immediately relaxed my hands to show I was not something to fear. She trusted me and settled herself right in the middle of my openly cupped palms.
She was beautiful, from the scars on her wings to the subtle shades of brown that streaked down the tattered edges of them. All the markings on her were like a canvas, showing me the stories that now explained why she was uneasy about landing on me so quick.
I wanted nothing more than to take away the pain that she suffered and nurse her back to the amazing colors I saw beyond the scars of her wings. It might of been the way she looked at me with those eyes, or maybe it was the way I felt when she walked on my skin as if she were inside of it. I definitely knew one thing though, I would do anything for her.
I planted the best roses and lilies in my garden, always giving her a reason to come back. She craved to breathe in the aura of my being like it was purer than the pollen of a red rose.
Anytime she landed on me now, there was never hesitation. She pollinated me with all the ideas she took from the flowers she’s journeyed on throughout life. We mutually connected, almost as if she had been living in my garden all my life.
Her addiction to me had attracted my attention like no other, and I fell in love with the way we grew. I felt my cupped hands close a little more while I held her now.
Her scars started to fade with time, and just like I thought, the colors that existed beneath them were captivating. She flew around my garden and spread the wings, that had once been torn, with the confidence of a bird that committed itself to soar the skies beyond. I was happy to know that I had helped push this butterfly back into the world, but I also felt my cupped hands close a little more while I held her now.
Every time she was gone and growing, I waited so eagerly for her return to see the new stories her wings told. They grew even stronger then from how I had once seen them before, and flourished with vibrant colors. It was amazing; I was completely infatuated with watching her grow. I felt my hands close a little tighter while I held her now.
She was mine. I had never felt so good about myself before and maybe I began to take her for granted. I stopped planting flowers in my garden and neglected to water the ones that always brought her back. My garden dried up, and the sight of it didn’t even make me flinch. I was too enveloped in watching a pretty sight like her fly around.
There were no more plants growing anymore, no more new seeds planted or new flowers to explore. It was all dead. Al I cared about was her story, her presence and her legacy. She was all I had.
There was little for her to delight in anymore, but I guess I didn’t notice. Her wings fluttered sadly, and I felt my hands close a little more while I held her, now completely cutting her off from spreading her wings.
She didn’t feel free any more. Instead of nurturing the garden we used to love exploring together, I made my hands a prison to keep her from flying away from me. The thought that she would prefer another hand or another garden ate at me. I wanted her all to myself. By the time I realized I was wrong, she had flown away for good.
I have been working on my garden ever since. If she ever returns, she’ll be pleased to see it’s the best it’s ever been.