Come see the veiled beauty
alive in my garden,
not in the sheen and shade
of apples or plums, the curvaceous limbs
of my birches or generous trunk,
nor even in the color of leaves as the flowering
cherry sheds in great crimson piles.
Close your eyes, slide into the mystery of
seeds sprouting, exploding, morphing
into a thousand wild designs or
lean into the light with the infant plant and
feel the green buzz vibrating in every cell.
Taste the juicy perfection of each blossom,
gifted with as much sweetness as it takes
to be irresistible to the bee.

Walk in my garden
along the fence as it curves south.
There is a desert rose
planted in a lively corner
that blooms eagerly in any season.
Pause a moment to watch her flowers
open into their own miracle of beauty,
not in the vibrance of the petals or
their sweet scent, but in how she gathers
in the warmth, spreading it in wide
sunny swathes, how she stretches in
languid delight for the sun or how the
honeybees, humming low, bathe in her nectar
and the birds perch on her sturdy stems,
singing out their love and pain.
Stop to see how she listens,
soothing, patient in her silence.
Do her thorns protect her scarlet center?
Part her petals. Will you find
her wounded beating core
where she hides her own sorrow?
No matter. Singular and strong,
growing daily in uncommon wisdom,
suckling in the rich health of her native soil,
her roots run deep, she blossoms in drought or flood.
Sitting in her fragrant shadow my spirit steadies,
joy rises up in me like sap, like a heartsong,
like a kiss from a beloved child.