08/10/2026
Lessons From the Garden
I sit beneath the willow
where morning spills like gold,
and every bright green leaf
holds a story yet untold.
The sun slips through the branches,
painting shadows on the ground,
while somewhere in the garden
the first small birds are found.
The weavers start their singing,
their busy breakfast call,
as if the waking world itself
has something for us all.
And I sit, and breathe,
and listen to the day
to leaves that dance in silence,
to petals opening their way.
For a garden never asks us
to know what comes before.
It simply grows toward morning,
and trusts there will be more.
A seed does not fear the darkness
when buried in the earth.
It knows that quiet seasons
are where new things find their birth.
The pruned branch does not mourn
what yesterday has taken.
It waits beneath the winter sun
for buds to awaken.
And weeds remind me gently
that not all things we grow
will stay the way we planned them and that is how we know.
The rain teaches us surrender.
The roots teach us to hold.
The flowers teach us beauty
doesn't have to be controlled.
The willow teaches bending
when the winds begin to blow.
And every little bird reminds me
there is always food to seek and know.
So perhaps each new morning
is a garden of its own a patch of earth unplanted,
a place not yet fully grown.
We do not need to know
which flowers will bloom today.
We only need to plant some hope
and meet the light halfway.
For yesterday is compost now,
returning to the ground,
feeding all the possibilities
that tomorrow may have found.
So I sit beneath my willow,
with the sunlight in the leaves,
and listen to the weavers sing
of all that life believes.
A new day.
A clean beginning.
A chance to start anew.
And somewhere in this magical garden,
I think I understand We are growing too!
