The garden is something important to me. I am not sure exactly what yet.
More than an idea.
More than a peaceful reserve in the all-encompassing chaos.
More than an organic foil to the concrete and steel and glass and plastic and money.
More than just the tangible to displace the wealth and status and faith and desire and jealousy.
I find not experience nor any community nor friendships nor obligations here.
The garden is a mirror showing my soul’s reflection to myself
and all of its imperfections and,
sometimes, some of its secrets.
Something remains buried underneath, I think.
The white flowers spread their petals towards the treehouse,
Undulating an invitation on the sun's rays to my nose
to sample a soothing aromatic sensation.
My ego is on fire.
I could never build this but a group of people could.
I must not be afraid to let my ego go,
to love truth, embrace strength,
and cultivate self-control.
I'm sweating slightly profusely now.
Catastrophe is a great word,
although I am thankful I have used it
so few times in my life