Who decided how flowers should be arranged?

Like a compressed garden for the eyes,

Cuddled up likes lovers on a summers evening,

Co-existing, spraying out the perfect perfume …

 

Harmony.

 

 

So this plant is not perfect,

Has some shedding petals,

Sun damage,

Irritated by insects,

Who are really only doing their job …

And signs of a gangly and unwieldy growth.

 

However, parts of me are still a joy to behold. It gives me hope.

They are all ungone.

It seemed as if they were memories once,

Now magically undone,

And permanantly present,

Removing completely the yesterday.

 

The present has bled into the past,

As a river flooding its banks,

Removing the binding limits of a journey,

Punctuated by hard and soft soil,

And the steepness of a life well led.

 

Now, it seems, they all stand there waiting,

Waiting to hear from me,

How they have impacted my smallest movement,

Somehow missing me,

As I certainly miss them all.

 

Those people I can no longer talk to each day.

For whatever reason.

Burn scars tell a story.

Sometimes of renewal, or learnings, of what is painful in life,

Yet, new skin often emerges,

Breathing life and understanding previously absent.

 

A strange and unexpected gift.

 

The Lonely Veranda electronic

Rising in vibrant streaks,

A rush of color bursts into the room,

Filling it with warmth, light and love.

Suddenly there are no shadows,

Only clarity.

 

And I see with my heart for the first time.

Strangely wonderful, all the pieces place themselves precisely where intended,
Like warm gloves on a cold winter’s day.
Some of the same color, yet different in tone,
Reflecting light in a peculiar and unique way,
Making the picture of my journey complete.

These are not static, even the snap of the shutter cannot contain them.
Spreading their light in shards,
Each containing the divine spark of a life touching mine,
And a trail of personality now etched in my own,
Forever.

 

Sometimes, I remember.

I remember what it was like before I spoiled the view,

Removed the plants,

Took out the asphalt,

And painted the picture of industry in my city.

 

When I do, remember that is,

I can make the other occur,

A return to nature,

I try and make it happen like it was,

And send it back in time.

 

To the way the gardener intended.

Set to airplane mode.

Now tuned out to all ground communications,

I smile with an inner sigh,

Or relief as my small retreat from calls begins.

 

Tuning out can be nice,

For a while, but I wonder:

Who is trying to call me right now,

Perhaps it’s important,

Or am I being forgotten already.

 

Maybe I have set my life to airplane mode, tuning out God.

Take a seat won’t you.

Here I Am, inviting, solid yet cozy,

Ready to comfort those weary bones,

And provide renewal after your journey.

 

Come, share your day with Me.