Visual Journey 58

The Gardens We Grow

Jun 06, 2025

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Gardens We Grow


Early in the morning, I rise quietly.
The wooden floor is cool beneath my bare feet.
I open the porch door slowly.

The air is crisp, and it prickles my skin—
a welcome contrast to the warmth inside.
The sun is just beginning to stir.
Outside, the earth is damp.
Mud squishes between my toes, grounding me.

In the hush of dawn, I kneel in the garden.
Dew clings to the new green growth—
fragile, reaching, glistening.

There is lily and wild violet.
Columbine, aster, goldenrod.
Zinnias, cosmos, sunflowers, dahlias.

I brush their leaves with my fingers.
My hands are already dark with soil.

And then I sing—
for the joy of being here,
for the quiet company of flowers.
Later, I fall silent again,
listening to the soft breath of the world waking.

I walk the Adsum Trail,
weaving through a field of dandelions.
The brook is near—I can hear it before I see it.
Its voice is constant, swirling.
When I step in, my feet sink joyfully into the muddy streambed.

I return the way I came,
past raspberry canes just beginning to leaf.

The sun is higher now.
Birdsong erupts in the trees.
Five yellow butterflies pass me like a blessing.
A dragonfly spins briefly in my shadow.

The sky stretches, open and endless.
Blue as far as I can see.
And I am ready—
to sit, to rest, to witness
my garden grow.

It grows quietly.
Boldly.
Faithfully.

Evening comes. Shadows lengthen.
The light goes gold, then rose, then blue.
And when night falls,
I stand barefoot once more,
framed in the doorway,
watching my garden sleep beneath the moon.