Tuesday, November 3, 2009


I have searched the garden everywhere to find the Tender One who rounds the tiny buds to bursting beads along the branch, who shapes the lady slipper for a fairy foot in Easter woods, and colours baby-blue-eyes like the sky. I have hunted under rhubarb leaves, around the roots of cedar trees and even walked the paths at night by chance I might surprise some artisan at work beneath the stars.
But nothing, I find no one out there tending to the essences of the garden, deciding why the rose is red, the lily white or ordering the quiet round of seasons. The spirit of this earth and all her creatures lies within and not without, a holiness, a power and a mystery beyond our finest reasons.

Thelma Palmer

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