My Garden is a Pleasant Placeby Louise Driscoll
My garden is a pleasant place
Of moon glory and wind grace,
O friend, wherever you may be,
Will you not come to visit me?
Over fields and streams and hills,
I'll pipe like yellow daffodils,
And every little wind that blows
Shall take my message as it goes.
A heart may travel very far
To come where its desires are,
Oh, may some power touch my ear,
And grant me grace, and make you hear!.
The world laughs in flowers.
I encourage the laughter of the earth in that I have for many years made it a point to cultivate a large garden full of roses, crepe myrtle, begonias, gardenia, Amarylis,...whatever will grow and bloom under the hot Texas sun, and not a few varieties that don't. Sometimes it's much easier to draw flowers than it is to try and grow them, expecially when the temperatures outside in August can exceed 100 degrees, but the physical experience of gardening is the spiritual one of being linked to the soil and through the soil to a place more primeval when we depended on the earth for our food and survival.
I encourage the laughter of the earth in that I have for many years made it a point to cultivate a large garden full of roses, crepe myrtle, begonias, gardenia, Amarylis,...whatever will grow and bloom under the hot Texas sun, and not a few varieties that don't. Sometimes it's much easier to draw flowers than it is to try and grow them, expecially when the temperatures outside in August can exceed 100 degrees, but the physical experience of gardening is the spiritual one of being linked to the soil and through the soil to a place more primeval when we depended on the earth for our food and survival.
The garden is a metaphor for life. It is an illustration of the long progression from birth to death; there's also something mindless and comforting in the tasks associated with keeping a garden. The formula is a simple one: a little soil, some fertilizer, water and the plants themselves yield a continuing feast for the eye all summer and spring and when the plants die back in the winter, there is always the assurance that more will emerge in the springtime to begin the cycle of life all over again. "Who loves a garden," wrote Louise Seymour Jones "finds within his soul..life's whole."
"Yellow Iris", Catherine L. Gauldin 2009 all rights reserved
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