GARDEN SONG

It’s an old garden.

Poplar stands dream and resonate;

All is tonewood, crafted and placed—

I’m only starting to understand

How He makes and fills up space.

It’s an old garden.

Greenest generation saturated

With a traditional seventh-day theme,

Re-imagined in August rays

Golden on the stream.

It’s an old garden.

Dust arranged, dissolved, and re-arranged

Into motifs of likeness and light,

Grateful lyric in late season.

I’m a summer flower.

How I wish to behold all of these wonders

Without notice of myself at all—

Dripping, even on the farthest bank

Of the waterfall.