Our Lady of Perpetual Astonishment

This one is for you, current presumptuous mess that you are. For well you know that a garden untended suffers any myriad of fates. Too much sun, or rain, wild animals and tiny parasites, illness. I think of The Secret Garden, all the greenery in all directions, on all surfaces, hemmed in by stone walls. A garden will grow however it pleases without you. If you return years later, there could be thorns, brambles, leaves that cause you itch. You cannot lie comfortably where you once did, nor might you will the vines to make you a bed. You could hack your way through the overgrown paths, or recall that you are a tender of life and must be patient. This isn’t anything new to you, but you’re distracted of late, idealizing what is most dull. The truth is this garden always looks so appealing from afar, then shows not a care for your return. Rarely there is fruit, and without discernible pattern. Tremendous is the might of growth-driven things. In the entanglement now is a good place to grieve. What once was and couldn’t be, all the flowers you may not ever see, and the gardens you’ve left to thrive.