This garden grows in a bed of shade
As the light is dim where the seeds were laid,
In places where the sun can only half invade…
So the flowers’ colors tend to fade.
From the rise of dawn till the start of night
There are more shadows than there is of light,
Yet this garden wills itself in spite
In the speckled patches where the shade is bright.
“How odd,” they said, “that you planted there
You could have planted anywhere.”
And even though that space was bare,
“What a waste,” they said, of time and care.”
But how many other things of matter
Whose initial worth were left in tatters,
Surpassed the first from beyond the latter;
Are now fertile grounds for furnished flatter?
No, this garden grows just where it should
Its roots took hold because they could.
Through droughts and storms it still withstood
To quiver light through trembling wood.
So by and by from time to time
That garden lingers in my mind,
On what else remains and poised to find…
Or what was lost when I was blind.
Still, I have a garden that lives in shade.
And it’s something pretty that I made
And though its colors tend to fade
Not for a 1000 other gardens would I trade.