The flower is a vessel of transformation. Flowers
reminiscent of a song. The butterfly
closes her wings at rest. Seeds
like truth, grow
into the magnificent, wise, and ancient oaks, deep
rose red madrone, the manzanita trees,
the grasses, poppies, and peonies,
daisies and
the honey suckles. Tiny
green frogs appear, a lizard
quickly slithering by.
Presence, yet not
merely present but,
presence particular to me?
Night, when
mind seeds melt and bloom we
discover a story of a garden, why a garden?
Evening a time of the butterflies flight
to unexplored realms one moonlit night.
Poppy is a flower of peculiar propensity.
She is passionate and precise, a
Mind bright with discriminating delight.
Butterfly lights on her golden center,
She is quiet and still.
Peony lyre of a forest night dances
until the morning light.
Her mocking grace
beyond the metre,
sounds a vine of treasure sweeter.
Butterfly’s days in sorrow wept,
A gate of slumber, her treasure kept.
The garden is another way of expressing the ocean mudra, its
beauty, and delight.