The Garden

Here is the garden; I share it with my mother, with children who dance in the sunlight and run up through the tall grass with laughter ringing often as volatile shadows ingrain the night. There is joy here, at once ephemeral and full of breath, and I tend to every bloom to make the future a better place. Budded hopes shooting free to the edges of the seeds I scattered before. And here too is the soft, cool passing of evening light, a breath I can feel, as we sit together, holding the moments close, for the garden to grow, to see these petals ease into day. Oh, mother, I share it with you, what ground we copied, what flowers we’ve grown this time, and I believe it still: the trees have roots that may touch the stars at night!

• Mary Oliver