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