Pictures in a Garden

Pictures In a Garden
(with apologies to Modesto Mussorgsky)

(Playing ~ "Pictures at an Exhibition, Promenade 5,
The Market Place of Limoges, Catacombs, Skulls," by Mussorgsky)

Promenade. Walk fast with gusto, but smoothly.

The Gnomes of the Garden

I spy, just around the bend up ahead
A place of unspeakable pleasure.
Nestled between the earth, sky, and rocks
Primroses and small evergreens gather,
Evoking a feeling of mountains and snow,
This picture of dwarf alpine treasure.
Only a foot or two high are the pines
Instead of the huge ones elsewhere.
A magical, miniature garden of dwarfs
Like a midget fairyland so rare.
This is a room free of roofs and walls
And a bit of paradise is there.
Groves of conifers in all different shapes
Are primly and properly dressed.
The blues, the greens, and the grays all try
To reach up and welcome a guest.
So handsome and noble, the globe and the spire
Offer, like a church steeple, rest.

Promenade. Walk delicately with much composure.

The Orchard Tree

Since the beginning of time man has honored the fruit,
The good edible produce of the orchard.
This tree is surrounded by wildflowers and grass,
A small tree at the edge of a border.
A picture to look at, a sight to behold,
It looks packaged and ready to order.
This tree has character, is twisted and old
And gnarled with long years of weather.
It bears good fruit but instead of a tree
There is more the shape of an arbor.

Promenade. Walk casually, but impressively.

Guards Standing Watch

Boxwood stand motionless as if they were sentinels
On guard in their forty year watch.
Dark green English box hold down the fort
For azaleas as their branches arch,
Gracefully presenting themselves on parade
In a royal inspection march.
Creating a canopy, the pure white dogwood
Cascade overhead in umbrella shapes.
They look over the green leaves of the box,
Pretending to be protecting capes,
As guards, guarding the guards, waiting
For the rest of the garden to wake.

An Old Garden Bench

It seems there is no empty space from entrance to the fence
But at the end of the border and a path
I see the old garden bench.
Worn, it is, but yet there is dignity and grace
And you can see the hands that moved it
Put it in just the right place.
Nearby is a rose bed with a sundial to tell the hour
For a gardener who loses all sense of time
When working with a flower.
The bench looks as if it has waited as seasons come and go
To offer rest for one who cared.
Just who, I do not know.
But if I had a peaceful place where hours could be spent,
I'd want a place just like this place,
A garden and an old garden bench.

Promenade. Walk with tranquillity.

A Fragile Spring Garden

Oh beautiful springtime, I wish you could speak
And tell me just what are your thoughts.
How lovely, how delicately your new life appears;
What gardener your image has wrought?
I gaze on in wonder, in pleasure, in awe
To see if the mood can be caught.
Alas, both the color and fragrance is there
On a canvas that cannot be bought.

Meandering Stream

Music and water go together somehow
In this moss-covered bed for a stream.
Playful water that is allowed to wander
And in so doing, create a dream.
Flowing lazily past wild ginger and fern
It's running forever it seems.
How far can it go, this watery path?
Just how much can it splash and fall
As it cascades and spills over rocks made smooth
Underneath red maples so tall?
Keep going, little stream, keep going,
You'll soon hear the river's call.
Keep going, little stream, keep going,
That's the most beautiful music of all.

Promenade. Walk moderately fast and smooth
as in the country.

The Vegetable Garden on a Summer Morn

In a small corner of an acre lot
Is a space for a vegetable plot.
It must be summertime at least
For there is much to make a feast.
There are no lettuce or English peas
Nor are there spring onions to please.
But abundance abounds with tomatoes and corn
And plenty of glories of the morn.
Vines of melons and poles of beans
Grow on every inch it seems.
No one is weeding or picking the crop
As it must keep growing for someone's pot.
The colors and textures of the leaves
Look like the yarn that a weaver needs.
In the green garden where much is borne
I can see dew, so it must be morn.

Down the Old Stone Steps to the Winter Garden

Lingering leaves covered with frost enhance the garden wall
And leave a hint of summertime before it turns to fall.
Leftover blooms of dried icy sedum, glistening Autumn Joy,
Play between rows of junipers and sage like a swaying toy.
Down and down go the rows of steps leading to dormant plants.
Down and down the icy slopes to blades like a sword or lance.

The Ice-stilled Garden

Once where many flowers bloomed,
Where birds and butterflies played
The earth is hard, the grass looks dead
And even hydrangeas fade.
Cold wind blows over land and stream.
Ice is thick on the pond.
Time stands still for a little while.
Yes it's still ... until winter is gone.

A Garden Made in the Shade

Beneath towering oaks, hemlocks, and pines
That cast dappled shade far below,
There is a cool floral tapestry of many hues
Where favorite shade-loving plants grow.
Beyond the spruces, majestic and trim
Hostas are winding and making a path
Into a shade garden where beauty abounds
And birds, in all privacy, take a bath.
Narrow lanes of grass lead into rooms
Filled with all colors of green.
This picture couldn't be rooted in dirt,
It must be happening in a dream.

The Great Iron Gate

There is something impressive about this large gate,
As though you must use caution and wait
To reflect on whether you are welcome or not
Or come back at a later date.
The latch is open and the gate is ajar
And I see down the well-tended path
The holly and elm trees surrounded by flowers.
I feel like the house is not far.
The gate is either keeping in or keeping out
Anything that's a stranger to Eden.
It is protecting a goodly and private world,
Something precious and dear that's about.
Very much I want to know who dwells in this place,
To push open and swing wide the gate
And enter the strong iron fortress,
Be welcomed, and learn to appreciate.

This picturesque work, by my good friend Hilna,
is used with her permission.
My thanks to her for allowing me to share
her wonderful God-given talent.

I would love it if you would sign my guest book!

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