You've been here before. To garden and till your parcel of the field. I see you now and then, as you've planted and watered and encouraged your flowers to grow. Sometimes you are here when they push through the rich soil. Sometimes you are away, at another part of your garden. I am always here. I watch the fields as I watch the stars. So many flowers in their places, stretching and reaching for the light of their maker. The day cannot blind out the colors in their folds. It has to illuminate each hue and variance. It has no choice.
Every gardener is different. Some plant with passion, feverish in their disrobing of the wanton earth in their lustful fingers. They caress and cup their lovers when they bare themselves, longing for the next moment when they can walk between the rows like satin sheets and behold the hot harvest underneath.
Others plant in silence, finding solace in the solitude as a fetus in the womb. Fog and mist sometimes surrounds what they grow, yet to walk beneath the haze is to find a deep beauty that yearns for beholding.
Blush Blossomed Branches.
Gentle touch of cloud and dawn.
Extend over all.
Some plant tiny flowers for little hands to touch and hold: Perri-winkles and poppies. Daffodils and daisies. Dandelions with whispered fluff to make young wishes on. Roses red and violets blue. Each boy and girl holds a different hue. They garden with smiles and water with giggles. Their flowers grow in rows of quick rhymes and riddles.
Then there are those who only garden at night, hushing their nightshade and wolf's bane by the light of the full moon. The wind howls as both man and beast as they toil by midnight. Reapers come to harvest their crop, with sickle moon in trembling hands. Blooms that turn only by moonlight open like dry parchment beneath calloused hands.
Still others prefer to plant the far reaches of the field, planting where others dare never go. Their plants grow far off and away from the rest, exotic in their fragrances and unique in their growing. Strange tangled roots inch deep into soil long abandoned. Queer limbs spiral like galaxies in their quest for new light to behold.
Many plant a variety, their gardens a patchwork flux of other gardens in the field. Ratatouille and mudge-pudge plantings to delight the senses. The spice of life growing with the whims and fancies of the gardener's skilled hands.
I see you now, as I hope you've seen me from time to time. My garden is young, but it is growing. I am one of the curious gardeners, experimenting with different species and varieties. I enjoy the adventure of seeing what pops up. You may catch me star gazing. You may find me transfixed at some petals glistening small in a deserted row. You may notice me struggling with some vines from time to time, but the effort is good. Sweat makes the harvest sweeter. I might be here long after I should have turned in for the night, tending the secrets out of dark blooms. With me you just never know. But I am always here. So many flowers. So many stars.
Here in the field of infinite possibilities.
What does your garden hold? What are you planting? I would love to hear what possibilities you are growing! : )
~Eric~
