My Father's Garden

April 6, 2011
The screen door slams behind me
as I walk out into my father’s yard.
I don’t mind the sound, though,
Because my father has taught me
That when one door closes, another opens.

As I step onto the grass that does, indeed,
look greener from the other side of the fence,
I look around, and am overcome with beauty.
In every direction is a garden.

Gardens of fruit trees, of roses, of ponds,
of wildflowers. All stand tall and proud.
It’s as if they say, “This is where I belong,
here in this beauty, and none shall move me!”

But as I stare, I see one empty spot,
a small patch of brown dirt, mostly
covered by a hose. Despite its plainness,
I smile as I walk over to check on my

If you look closely, you can see
little green plants sprouting, growing,
reaching for the precious light above.
Though it is not yet as beautiful
as my father’s gardens, I love it.

I kneel in the good soil my father
set down for me and pull up the weeds
trying to suck the life from my plants.
I turn on the water and imagine my
garden as it will someday be,
tall and full like my father’s.

But as I dream I know that part of that beauty
will be from my father’s love. He set down
rich soil, and taught me to water every day,
to nurture seeds with love, and that even the
smallest things, can one day be beautiful.

One day, I know, I will be grown like my
plants, fed by my father’s fertilizing love
and nutrition that he rained down on me.
But for now, like my plants, I am content
Here, in my father’s garden.

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