The Glory of The Garden

A blessed place.

 A cursed place. 

A place of bright perpetual sun. 

A place of dust, 

of shriveled grass and roots. 

Where does the spirit take a stroll in the evening, 

when the sun takes a break 

and the breezes blow hot sand up in your face? 

Where does the gardener rest from his weeding, 

clearing the ground of dry husks and briars? 

The garden has two faces, smooth and shriveled, 

and the shadows cast depend on where you stand. 

The apples bud, flower, fruit and rot. 

The shadows move faster 

when there’s nobody to see.