If I could only see myself

the way I see my garden…


In its fledgling flax

and parched penstemon

I see graceful limbs

and bold blossoms

opening to the desert sun.


In the microscopic thyme

that barely survived the winter,

I see a brave heart.

Kneeling to it, I say,

“I thought you were dead,

but here you are!”


By mid-summer its flavor will

brighten soups and stir-fries.


Each morning I visit

the marjoram, oregano and sage.

I touch a new lavender bud,

smell its pungent scent on my fingers.


I value these

beyond their outer appearance,

for the way they impart flavor

just by being who they are.


The pink cosmos blossoms

scream joy to the sky.

When one wilts,

its petals scattered

across the bark mulch,

another opens undaunted

to take its place.


And the lilac…

Its blooms sweeten the garden in spring

and never return the whole summer,

but still, its tangled green

dances in the breeze,

no elaborate show necessary.


These friends are but children

in the vast churning of life,

budding luminaries

disguised as little plants.


Really, they are larger

than the whole universe,

stronger than a mighty oak,

more enduring than the sun that feeds them,

for they are soul,

just like

I am.


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