In the garden's quiet hours,
Softly bloom the tender flowers,
Dressed in gentle hues of dawn and dusk,
Woven from the fertile earth's own musk.
Petals dance on winds that sigh,
Brushing lightly 'neath the summer sky.
Every deep green leaf, a secret spun,
Whispers silent tales to everyone.
Roses blush with sudden crimson fire,
Sunflowers stretch with bright, audacious desire.
Lilies, pristine and soft as pale moonlight,
Glow like silent lanterns in the coming night.
The buzzing bee, a hurried, golden drone,
Collects the pollen that the air has sown.
The tiny spider weaves its silver thread,
While ancient moss lies soft beneath the bed.
Here, life is simply lived, no clock to keep,
Only the deep, slow rhythm of the deep.
In their silence, a profound beauty grows,
A deeper wisdom than any language knows—
A fleeting grace, a fragile, velvet bloom,
That lifts the heavy air from deepest gloom.
They stand a vivid reminder, clear and sharp,
That joy can spring from soil and wounded bark.
© William Sinclair Manson 2025
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