Garden

I see twigs and weeds. All I see is dirt and death of the roots of my soul.
So I let it rain in the hope that all which does not belong washes away.

I see uncut grass, long enough to make me trip and fall on my face.
So I let it dry in the hope that it will be short.

I lay here crying myself to sleep in my dying garden.
I lay here, shying away from my garden, thinking I'll be pardoned by some holy cause.
I lay here contemplating all the flowers, which one deserves to be my light, but they all do.

Oh, how I've messed this garden up, thinking that the boy will come to trim it.
I saw him pass by, I waved, and I said hello, he smiled.
I asked him to please tend to my garden, but he wouldn't budge.

I asked the lady who happens to adore my roses and not my succulents to tend to my garden.
She also wouldn't budge. She asked if she could cut some of my roses to decorate her house. I didn't budge.

All my wildflowers, roses, succulents, daffodils and sunflowers seem to be growing.
Oh, how unorthodox my garden is.
And oh how beautiful they are in this mess.
So I tend to the garden. I let it rain.
I tended to garden because I don't need the boy or the lady.
I tend to the garden because I know the best way how.

The garden doesn't need to be trimmed. The garden doesn't need to be cut.

The garden is divine in all its forms.
The garden is holy uncut and untrimmed. The garden keeps on growing.
The garden knows that for it to thrive, it needs both the rain and the sun.

The garden is the garden is the garden.