Garden of mind polluted with weeds.
Each tending to it’s different needs.
Some of the now and some what’s to come.
Some holding on to that which is done.
Crowding and seizing each inch of earth.
Stifling a garden’s intended rebirth.
Force of nature’s once dominant past.
Sits there and waits, for its word is the last.
Weeds come and go and re-arrange.
Twisting and breeding culture so strange.
Invading and fighting all to be free.
But before long the sprouting of tree.
A focused thought, a settling of gaze.
Taking the reins of these coming days.
Pushing these weeds gently aside.
Casting its shade from far and wide.
Leaves in the sun, shake with winds flow.
Darkness ends the weed’s madness below.
Nature’s unfolding and not in the last.
Always at work, these things far more vast.
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