I used to imagine him
coming from the house, like Merlin
strolling with important gestures
through the garden
where everything grow so thickly
where birds sing, little snakes lie
on the boughs, thinking of nothing
but their own good lives...
But now I know more
about the great wheel of growth,
and decay, and rebirth,
and know my vision for a falsehood...
I see him on his knees...
knowing that the hour of fulfillment
is buried in years of patience-
yet willing to labor like that
on the mortal wheel.
On, what good it does the heart
to know it isn't magic!
Like the human child I am
I rush to imitate...
I think of him there
raking and trimming, stirring up
those sheets of fire
between the smothering weights of earth,
the wild and shapeless air.
The mortal wheel gives us meaning that magic would not. If someone could wave a wand and we could be done with death, would we still make gardens? I don' t know about you, but I imagine if we had evolved or will evolve where death and decay will be a rarity, we'll find a way to make meaning. We always do. Perhaps this is where the magic lies, that somehow we co-orginated with other life and that over the long arc of the years, of a species, something wondrous occurs. Thinking of how little I know about this earth as a garden, I wonder who is really the master gardener? Could it not be the little pansy that brings the human to task?
What is your work over the long years? What seems like daily work to you, but to others seems like magic?