Photo by Paul Paproski
We have a garden called Eden, nestled in our hills.
Our garden of nearly an acre is a quiet reflective place.
A pond in the heart of our garden captures blue summer skies,
and invites the dragonflies to dance.
Winding paths lead to flowers of every shape and hue
to a stand of pines. The guardians of our garden.
Gentle giants: the connection between heaven and earth.
Our sanctuary keepers are dying.
Tiny black invaders came boring deep within,
leaving their telltale signs of death.
Life sap oozing from pine bark,
Sawdust falling red as blood.
We grieve for our guardians, which we love.
For who will warn of sudden summer storms,
or sing to us in soft whispering lullabies?
Who will call the autumn mist to and from our garden?
Who will show us the beauty of the first winter snow
nestled on their branches, or the crystal sheen
of the hoarfrost on their limbs?
Who will provide food and refuge for our squirrels,
and our feathered friends?
We have a garden called Eden, nestled in our hills,
where a grove of gentle giants once stood.