My Garden

My Garden, said the bird. “I sing and splash in the birdbath and drink the cool water. I eat the seeds that appear like magic.”

And the caterpillar says, “My garden. I have all that I want to eat and there are plenty of places to lay my eggs after I become a butterfly.”

Our dog, Angel, says, “My garden. I chase the cat that walks along the top of the fence, and I lay on the cool grass as I rub my nose in the dirt.”

My Garden, says the Birch tree, as she lowers her branches toward the flowers below, standing proudly silent, welcoming the sparrows and the yellow finches to rest on her branches.

And the proud owners say, “My garden,” as they sit quietly, admiring the beauty that emanates through and around them, ever the same, yet ever changing.

They Listen, as the chattering of the birds harmonize with the fountain that gently bubbles and reflects the wispy clouds above.

What food for the soul. What lasting peace that lingers and gives strength to each day in … My Garden.

Poem by Stuart R. Wisong

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