Zen Garden
Nature does not hurry, and yet everything is accomplished.
— Taoist proverb
Comb smooth stones into still spaces, rake
ripples into a curving river, follow its seasons
through spring splurges of daffodils and azaleas,
jack-in-the-pulpits and pink lady slippers,
sweetened islands of midsummer roses clustering
honey bees in their orange heads.
Remember when water lilies—rose-coloured teacups on emerald
saucers—bobbed up and down in the pond. Then
in winter, deer wobbled over icy mounds, nibbling
loose corn in the bare-bones yard.
Now purple New England asters, native grasses, and nasturtiums
linger into chill.
Sit on the stone bench. A rake
rests against the maple.
Let your breath become
unhurried,
like the trees that surround the garden.
Nod inwardly at each thought as if
it were a withering leaf.
Breathe in morning silence.
Exhale morning silence.
A sugar-swollen monarch
will shiver its way
to warmth.
© Doris Fiszer