Weed to Garden Transition 

The moment

when birth fleetingly assumes

its foreshadowing as childhood,

quantum movement begins,

like growing bark upon the tree,

sapling nourished

to once upon that time

be the first branch.

Vigorous ramparts

shield paternal wrath,

as ongoing obstinacy

grows its arms

out of reach

for pruning into control.

Lightening delivers the hand of ethereal purging,

caressing the indolent leaves,

arrousing passions,

winds to arouse passions,

rain to bathe its bowers,

assisting prone lain lessons

amidst roots soon entangled.

Saplings arise,

while nurturing pleads persistence.

Beyond…

Awareness looms defiantly

amongst the dream,

the nightmares,

the rebirth of possibilities.

Yet…

As always,

there will be planting,

growing,

harvesting,

seasonal cultivation.

To further growth,

there may be fire,

expectancy's ashes scattering

like dusty prayers of eternity,

finding foundation,

creating yet further nutrients,

becoming perhaps

flowers to color carpets anew.

Might there be a garden

among the smoke of yesterday's lessons,

reaching yet to further light,

embracing the allotment of irrigation's tears?

For this blooming of age,

this mounting the stage

of cultivation's performance,

is where we become at one

with seedlings,

with girths circuitous nature,

with branches directional

up,

down,

across,

wherever shadows seek luminance.

Such versions of reality

remain forever

growing,

searching,

seeking yet another origin

beneath life's shelter,

where essence is nothing but essence.

The I,

The we,

The all,

Of why…

Weedless gardens thrive.