Enter with me into the perfumed garden
And I shall share it with you to see.
The plants with their mating dance have already begun
Taking in the sun, the earth, the moon, the common bee,
The wind, the water – all apart of the garden’s flowering.
Every road, every footpath, every by-way does end
But they are all bordered with pinks, reds and wandering
Blues – waxed and un–waxed, tall and short with many a trend.
We are all a part of the flowering of the kingdom of Eden.
But this is my garden of truth.
A sharp swish of branch with no resin’s scent in this place.
No coarse weeds or taste of bark, only truth to sleuth
Out the fruit that lies under the covering of the human race.
Over there, do you not see the “pair” there?
Watch as they remember when they were placed on this earth.
In this garden, in those bodies, they move about here
Laughing, dancing, singing of their worth.
Their fruit undercover aching for the morning light.
Ripened pears wadded into clothing protected from frost,
Sweet melons, almost ripe, smothered in an airtight
Corsage, clinging to the fullest of crisscrossed stalks.
When the spring comes to this garden we see the perfection
Of balance between male and female qualities reflected
In the flowers’ blooms, a silhouetted combined reflection
Of male and female where the pears cling to the branch granted
Residence – Or the melon – sun bleached and **** to the taste.
For this is beauty, beauty without strength, the smallest of fingers
Reaching high into the sky, the pathway made of twigs,
Spiced heads, reddish pink stalks, with leaves like beggars
Straining to turn toward the lighted prigs.
Oh ye of little faith just look at the earth as the garden that it is.
Taste the fruit of nature’s wisdom and let spring come to your garden.
For it is we who renews the earth and all that we have to do to pass the quiz.
Use the earth’s resources wisely for we are the coachmen
Who drives the earth forward into the light.
We are like fruit clinging to a branch calling out our birthright –
This earth is our earth and we have only this chance to get it right.

comme un oiseau,
Elle vole de ses propres ailes.
her silhouette is black against the evening blue of the sky,
the breeze as gentle as her whispered words.
Le vent souffle doucement
Aussi lente que les saisons passent.
and just like a bird,
she flits above the treetops, her chicks left at home in the nest.
Mais comme un oiseau vole,
elle ne peut pas voler longtemps*
but every little bird, no matter how brave
must return home.

There are those that shine;
To a particular person,
A beacon of light in a sea of darkened faces.

Those shining ones:
Beautiful,
Vivacious,
perfect?
An idealistic attraction

But, spare a thought,
For those who do not shine:
But instead,
Merely glimmer,
flicker,
perhaps even twinkle

Why is it, they are brushed aside?
Forgotten,
Because they aren't as beautiful, vivacious,
They're not perfect.

In attempt to reach the one that shines -
We push past endless possibilities,
Countless glimmers,
Ceaseless flickers,
Abundant twinkles.