In the middle of the evening in the middle of the week,
As the shadows have descended on the people strong and meek,
I peruse nostalgic thoughts penned in a book of things I’ve said,
Contemplating bygone eras and the feelings in my head…

There’s a quiet storm ‘a ragin’ in the garden of my mind;
There’s a quiet storm ‘a brewin’ in my soul.

As I wander through my garden, there’s a solitary tree;
Tall and stately, in the center…but peculiar is this tree!
On each branch, the blooms are different; no two fruits are the same,
Yet not one is out of place there as they play a secret game…

And the quiet storm’s ‘a ragin’ in the garden of my mind;
There’s a quiet storm ‘a brewin’ in my soul.

In the garden, there’s a fountain that’s a tantalizing scene:
What springs up from sources hidden?  Water…sparkling emerald green!
I marvel at every droplet as it races toward the ground,
Forming puddles, waves, and ripples without making any sound…

As quiet as the storm ragin’ in the garden of my mind;
There’s a quiet storm a brewin’ in my soul.

My best playmate in my garden is a cloud formed like a mare…
She touches ground, I climb her back, and then fly through the air;
Most days, I let her roam and romp and play wherever she might,
But some times I must direct her on a swift and urgent flight…

Through the quiet storm ‘a ragin’ in the garden of my mind;
There’s a quiet storm ‘a brewin’ in my soul.

In the middle of the evening, as I’m drifting off to sleep…
The moon shines in dominion over the night that’s his to keep;
My destination?  A dreamland that lies just beyond a hill,
And I slumber in confidence that my world lies very still…

Save for the quiet storm ragin’ in my mind;
There’s a quiet storm ‘a brewin’ in my soul.

© 1984, 2003 by Robert E. Blackwell