The Garden and the Poem

I’ve lived long enough to know that whatever I try to do is weakened by the effort. Whatever I try to say, is rendered less clear. I’ve learned that even before I begin, the doing and saying is already being done for me, and that by keeping breath in this body, life is allowing me to take part in a process as playful as it is timeless and profound. Life plants the garden. Life writes the poem. I hold the trowel. I tap the keys on my laptop. This is my good fortune. Along the way, day by day, page by page, the body grows a little older. This too is part of the process — noticing the aches and pains, marveling at the exhilaration, accepting the decay. And this book, which is entirely imagined, grows a little longer. But its beginning and end are no farther apart than when I first picked up a pen. By universal law, each contains the other. These words are stars. When they burn out, the sky will be read by others not even looking for them.

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