Prayer in a Garden
Today the world seemed cruel, but evening hours
Were filled with perfume from forgotten flowers.
I saw again familiar filigree
Of moonlight through my lacy Lilac tree;
I heard the robins stirring in their nest;
And saw the path that fairy feet had pressed;
Reflected stars were in my garden pool;
On my warm face the breeze was kind and cool.
The silence seemed to speak, my head was bowed,
Then ramblers that had grown into a cloud
Lifted my eyes that, tear-washed, now could see
The beauty that today was lost to me.
Dear god, who is so near to flowers, and birds,
Be nearer still, as I shall search for words
To thank Thee for the blessings night revealed,
Which through the day discouragement concealed.
-EvA SPARKs TAYLOR
Wild Orchid
“The flower that walks”, the Indian; said,
And walking spreads its crown-like roots
Through forest glades and upland dales.
Moccasin flower or Lady’s Slipper,
It matters not the name
Or if it be fair white or rose or tiny yellow kind
Tis ever rare and wondrous there
This woodland beauty Bequeathed us from another age.
A Heritage to guard with care
And cherish for posterity
That other eyes in future years
Mav see this Orchid walk the trails
As did our native Indian braves
And shy eyed maidens of the tribe.
-HELEN M. FLEET
WHEN RING THE BELLS
Lightly fall the Rains
On Heads bowed down in Grace,
And now the Summer Sun
Dries each upturned Face.
The Distant Bells are sparkling
And sweeten Lilac air;
Bright Rainbows flowing with the Wind-
The Congregation stares.
Daisies, Bluebells, joined in Prayer
One Summer’s windswept Day,
Knowing God and all his Blessings,
While with the Wind they Sway.
–Dave Vahlberg 6-26-2002
Will to Live
I think of all things that show a zest
For life, the dandelion beats the rest.
The little winged seeds from its white fluff ball
Settle and grow with no urging at all.
Settle in most unlikely places
And soon there’s a crop of dandelion faces.
They are man’s worst pest, but a child’s playthings.
Sometimes I wish I had light down wings
Like a dandelion seed, and could settle at will
On a velvety lawn or a sun-spread hill,
And live with the eagerness and zest
Of the wanton little dandelion pest.
-MARY TRIPLETT
Rebirth
Four days
Her petals furled
Gainst chilling wind and rain.
Came sun-and rose disclosed her heart
Purr gold
-Emma Berthelot
Rainbow Treasure
I have found the treasure
That lies at the Rainbow’s end;
Wealth beyond computing
Is mine to give or lend.
Opals of an April dawn,
Gold of a shimmering noon,
Amethysts of the sunset,
Pearls with the glow of the moon.
Would you like to share it?
There’s more than enough for all
In my Iris Garden
Against a grey stone wall.
-AGNES HAYES POST
Garden Magic
This is the garden’s magic,
That through the sunny hours
The gardener who tends it, Himself outgrows his flowers.
He grows by gift of patience,
Since he who sows must know
That only in the Lord’s good time
Does any seedling grow.
He learns from buds unfolding,
From each tight leaf unfurled,
That his own heart, expanding,
Is one with all the world.
He bares his head to sunshine,
His bending back a sign
Of grace, and ev’ry shower becomes
His sacramental wine.
And when at last his labors
Bring forth the very stuff
And substance of all beauty
This is reward enough.
-MARIE NETTLETON CARROLL
Springtime
Oh, spring came to my garden
And caught it unaware
Wearing just a few old leaves
And a dejected air.
But when spring left my garden,
Its work so deftly done,
Many, many Daffodils
Were dancing in the sun.
-Velma D. BATES.
Hillside, Narcissus
There’s a grassy slope not far away
Where thousands of Narcissus bloom,
And I catch my breath, as I watch them sway
Tossing their sweet perfume.
Gaily they nod their dear little heads
And smilingly welcome me,
As they spring up fresh from their winter beds,
Eager for company.
Their round white faces fair and clean
Are purer than frost or snow,
And I thank the hands, tho’ now unseen;
That planted them, long ago.
-NORA MC FARLANE
Memorial
I’ve had the garden tidied up,
As she would have me do.
This little pal who couldn’t stay
To see the season through.
The flowers were her dearest friends,
The garden was her own,
I’ve watched her work, but never knew
The things that she had grown.
Her, catalogues keep coming, and
Her garden magazine;
I run across the queerest names,
And study what they mean,
I read them all, from end to end,
And when the spring is here,
I’ll have a garden just like hers,
As though my wife were near.
Albert H. PEDRICK
Hen and Chickens
The “Hen” is in the’ garden,
And the “Chickens” are there, too;
They’ve traveled far to get here,
Across the ocean blue.
Of course, they do no scratching,
The reason is they can’t;
They’re not like other chickens,
For they are just a plant.
-JOHN CARROLL