Me:
Tending a small, walled garden
of rich, dark soil.
Knowing each rose by name
along the daily path.
The sun gentle, bees heavy
from bloom to bloom.
Evenings on the stone bench,
light softening.
To visiting friends,
offer freshly fallen pears.
The sweetest fruit, where
walls
keep out the wind.
“This is enough. It is whole.”
Myself:
Sweating on a bare, windy hill
hands raw from digging.
Not foundations, a channel
to the parched valley.
Working alone,
or in threes
through scentless nights
of turned earth and distant rain.
Sipping from a metallic canteen,
satisfaction: not a harvest for eating.
Blistered palms nod
horizon-ward
“That way, the water will run.”
I:
Sitting on the wall between
looking both ways.
The garden’s sun, the hill’s first cold drops
of the coming storm.
Not to tend or dig,
but to witness the tension,
the beautiful,
unbearable pull.
Seeing the full-fruited pear tree,
the first trickle reaching
the cracked valley soil;
joy, a strange alloy.
A leaf in one hand,
a cold, wet stone in the other.
Not deciding,
the bridge between is and ought.
Meaning growing in the space
between wall and wilderness.
Inspired by the article The Good Life Paradox at Philosophy Now. Best viewed on a big screen.
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