Tending Life's Garden

Not beating up on myself, just telling some truths.

My life's garden began when I was young,
learning by touch and by smell which to stroke,
and whether I should eat or I should poke,
I found what smelled good could also be dung.

The garden of my life reached puberty,
thunder, lightening and rain all came to call,
wanting to be a man, feeling so small,
snipped the umbilical cord to be free.

Glorious days of wine, women and song,
like a downpour of voluptuous flesh,
giving my garden substance to refresh,
flowers to be plucked as I danced along.

There were times when drought came to my garden,
wondered if it would be the death of me,
where are my ripe flowers, God, I did plea,
tried to restore but the ground had hardened.

Still, the garden grew, fresh flowers were born,
progressed and entered into adult years,
my garden grew into celestial spheres,
females caused me joy, then caused me to mourn.

The landscape of my garden was worn thin,
nurturing it became awkward, nothing grew,
I found you must love life, give it it's due,
as I looked back, I cringed where I had been.

My plot of life, my garden, as it were,
managed to feed itself without my aid,
helped me to the fall of my life's parade,
although a huge part of it was a blur.

The bitter weeds I've sown along the way,
causes remorse, yes I would change some parts,
mainly the left atrium of my heart,
give it more feeling and less disarray.

These are the days of my full winter's chill,
my plot of life has made its mark for good,
I've given it much, I did what I could,
I've had valleys and peaks and oh, some thrills.

Time has a way of rinsing out the bad,
we feed off ourselves, cannibalistic,
a merry-go-round down to the last click,
I just wish I had been a stay-home dad.

©June 26, 2006 / Jerry Pat Bolton