The Garden

On the edge of the garden, when the sun shines gently, it stretches both arms wide and sometimes leans into the cool shadows. Each tree has a voice that whispers sweet music across the gaps of new grass when the small birds sing for spring. Knowing those colors well, there are echoes of love in every droplet, fragile and soft as the morning mist. That’s the place where beauty can shout, slowly unwrapping the flower that wishes for the sun’s kiss; glorious, such majesty hung on its lips.

You stand there, transfixed, you feel every alphabet of every leaf, how it sighs full of soil, embedded in the breath of dawns—there is no pretending. Love is vivid, planted with sentiment, we are engulfed in the tick-element of beauty. Can you believe how they grow,
each petal becoming a song? In the quiet times, the late twilight hour, let’s thank every shadow and rise, content in this unique harmony, a fusion of mind and nature. That is all that one ever needed— a garden, full of lives, a canvas where all blooms.

• Mary Oliver