Monday, November 02, 2015

Garden Poem

Dried, woody, useless now,
The garden plants become
but matter for next year's beds.

The last chance to touch,
The rich, black soil.

Generous soil,
Filled with life!

It is the time for the dark days,
When vegetable life is but a promise.
A faint hope,
Beyond the sterile, icy white of winter.

(Thank God for Christmas!
The holy season keeps the mind and heart
busy with preparations, expectations,
Immersed in the sea of family love.

Then the holy season passes:
by then the days have the pattern inversed:
They obey the Lord of Nature,
Who rekindles our hearts anew every year,
from the manger,
Bringing both Light and Life,

Sleep, black, soft gold.
We will live in the promise
Till you bring Life again.

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