Not an ordinary garden?

                    Conceive and conceived


We know what our garden will not grow, whether seeded
root will take hold, how our seasons fare.

Each time we plant, we expose our prayer, the sum of what
we pray for; sun and rain conspire,

at least we hope so. I call you Mother Earth; you dance,
take delight in our soil

my fingers are the color of. Nature merges in our cascade;
we are the water and the water fall.

We are givers of the life we drink and taste, aquifers deep
and sweet, feeders of honeysuckle

twine we can’t untie; its scent defines our intent. Where we
are planted, all but hatred grows.




                                     B. Koplen  5/2/12