This poem is not necessarily complete but I am trying to be disciplined and regular in posting here, so I am sharing it with you all as it is.
The Soul Garden In the day of darkness I rose far too early And went, joints aching, to the garden where All the flowers of the world wildly grew. There in fallow fields grew flowers both real And imagined, the blossoms of all hearts And all minds, petals which we daily strew Across footpaths, pathways of consciousness Plucked from stems found deep in the soil of our souls, The out-blossoming of each inner me and you. And there some leaves and flowers stretched Out to greet me, called me by my name, took My hand up to their stems, coaxing me to Pluck and take them again into my heart where They had once all grown; like fey familiar friends They sang me their songs once true and untrue, Stories of times and times before then, when Half-formed and pruned, grafted and weak, I grew and grew foully what I now grew anew. There, the black roses beckoned, Their blood-red stems close kin to my own, Their ink-dark centre a place I well knew, And poppies promised fields of grass-deep sleep, Flowers of forgetful remembrance dozing where They grew, open-red blossoms to hold and to rue. The sleep they promised drew me, and yet As I drew near they slipped back farther afield. Yet as I lagged, aching joints slumping deep into The grass and mud beneath, I saw too the rows Of grace tulips reaching high, waving, waving; My dim heart dove, retreating, fainting, through The softness of the soil, drifting further down, Down, safe amongst the blossoms where, Garden-weary, wilting, I fell then into You.
The Consolations of Writing 