The Unguarded Garden

The garden is growing.
The garden IS growing.
Growing is what a garden IS.
The garden is like Eden.

The garden is guarded by angels hovering
Above the four gates holding swords of flame.
Inside the gates the garden grows, generously.
We are grateful for the garden’s growthfulness.
We are bestowed with what grows in the garden.

The garden is dying.

The leaves of the young tamarillo tree
Lean down, limp and fringed with brown.
You planted that tree. I was stricken with concern.
I hadn’t seen it fading – only a day or so ago it seems,
It was looking so green, garrulous and go-getting.

You planted it only a few weeks before we parted.
I was stricken. I poured a large bucket of water
Against the woody stem: one of the broad leaves
Broke off and fell to the ground as I glanced it.

Now not even the ways I want to help seem to matter.
I hadn’t seen it, I’m sorry, I hadn’t seen it was dying.
You don’t know how much the garden has been growing.
You don’t know how the large broad leaves are lost.

The garden is growing.
The garden is dying.

If you came back you’d say the garden was still ours.
But the angels with flaming swords wouldn’t let you in.

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