The Garden

Oh richest of all fertile lands,

Bewitch me with your heady scent,

In your soft and tender hands,

I rest amid your firmament.

 

But resting only makes me rise,

And rising only drives me on,

On into your gentle depths,

On until my strength is gone.

 

And then I stop and catch my breath,

As in your bosom I recline,

And know there in your tenderness,

My heart is yours as yours is mine.

 

Gardener and garden joined,

Entwined both, that we may know,

The joyous reason we aligned,

To plant a seed and watch it grow.

◄ The Border Of The Years

Don't Try To Be Happy ►

Comments

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Jason Bayliss

Sat 19th Jan 2019 11:07

It's funny, I'm a crappy gardener, I don't know my grass from my elbow but I love the tranquility of it.

Mind you the poem is about making love, but seems to switch quite well between each metaphorically, at least I hope it does.

poemagraphic

Thu 17th Jan 2019 19:58

Nice job.

I Love that last line on the first quatrain

Po

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