I Am Not My Own

You made me your garden.

Photo by on

you found me as a heap of rubble,
beaten by the wear and tear of time,
used as a waste bin for the lazy,
tried and torn from nature’s wicked wrath,

unwanted, unloved,
discarded, destroyed,

quietly abandoned,
yet lurking in the darkest corner of my barren wilderness,
hope held a vigil,
waiting for restoration and cultivation,

time drifted forward,
like fog creeping along my fringes,
painfully slow and unceasing,

and then —
yesterday’s hope had become today’s reality,
one who sees found my unseen spaces,

root by root,
plant by plant,
hedge by hedge,

the seer-turned-gardener made me his garden,

protecting my beauty with hedges and gates:
my flowers flourish,
my fountains fresh,
my boughs inviting,
my fragrance intoxicating,