The world may never see what grows in my garden. But I thank God for the wind, the rain, the sun and the seeds within my hand. There is nothing that pleases me more. No place, I’d rather. No other remedy, I would drink.
When the seasons turn, I may offer a taste to the world. Whether they eat or decline makes no difference. I am steward of the garden, called to task, by some internal spirit, to work in a place of dreams.
Each year the flowers grow more vivid, the fruit drips sweeter, the plants inch taller, the roots dig deeper. All around me the desert creeps closer, but here, in my garden, there is mist and rainbows and the scent of a strange perfume that I cherish.
Is this Heaven?
Author’s Note: Inspired by Sky Diaries, ‘Conscious Joy.’