Daily Garden Reflections

It is a small plant delicately branched and tapering conically to a point. A little plant without leaves, a finished thing guarding its secret.

Under this loop of honeysuckle, a creeping, coloured caterpillar, I gnaw the fresh green hawthorn spray. I nibble it leaf by leaf away.

Once in a golden hour, I cast to earth a seed. Up there came a flower, the people said, a weed. To and fro they went thro' my garden bower.

You are the creator of your own garden. Plant kindness and compassion. Water with love and gratitude.

It is blue-butterfly day here in spring, and with these sky-flakes down in flurry on flurry, there is more unmixed color on the wing.

The cornfield stretched a tender green to right and left beside my walks; I knew he had a nest unseen somewhere along the million stalks.

The solitary bee whose buzzing was the only sound of life, flew there on restless wing, seeking in vain one blossom where to fix.

We love our little garden, and tend it with such care. You will not find a faded leaf or blighted blossom there.

I lift my heart as springs lifts up a yellow daisy to the rain; my heart will be a lovely cup altho' it holds but pain.

We will seek the quiet hill where towers the cotton tree, and leaps the laughing crystal rill, and works the droning bee.

You only need sit still long enough in some attractive spot in the woods that all its inhabitants may exhibit themselves to you by turns.

The dawn was apple-green, the sky was green wine held up in the sun, the moon was a golden petal between.