Set at birth in the North corner of a forest one mile square
I was told to make a garden of the wilderness within;
To keep and use the harmony and beauty I found there
Eliminate the weaknesses, restore the rhyme and rhythm.

For the first few years I wandered in delighted exploration
Touching velvet violet petals, sleeping in the shade of ferns;
Dancing lightly on the mosses like a fairy moonbeam maiden
Hearing music in the thunder, singing in the sun's return.

There were clearings bright with blossoms, there were cedar-scented nights;
There were marshes of tall grasses, gentle life that knew my name.
Wind and river fed my motion; lightning, heat and cold my might;
It already was a garden, there was nothing I would change.
 

                            BEING -II-

Then one day the forest bellowed and the violets screamed in pain
Wind and thunder shrieked their warnings, giant oaks fell with a groan,
For my space had been invaded, horror cut through my domain
Turning splendour into shambles, life into an aching moan.

As I watched my forest tumble I knew I could stay no longer;
Wounded and without defenses, I withdrew into a cave;
Left my garden to the madness raging through it, growing stronger
Overwhelming truth and reason, feeding on the hurt it gave.

In the pain and fear that followed I lay low upon the ground
And heard the song of death beneath the ashes of my Eden;
Black harmonic of my sorrow, I let it pull me down
To the timeless dark of numbness, to the nothing deep within.

    And I wept my songs through tears in the dark;
    I wrote sweet words of what was
    Of beauty and joy that were mine once, before
    The god of hate slew god of love.
 
    The core that would melt with the shadings of dawn
    The hand that could touch and heal
    The laugh that would spring at the sight of a fawn
     -- all gentleness gone to steel.
 

                           BEING -III-

In the darkness of my hiding, in the depths of solitude,
In the fear of tyrant forces ruling broken worlds outside,
Reliving deep within myself my garden's varied moods
I danced the subtle rhythms of the moonflows and the tides.

But I missed the pretty flowers, and I missed the trembling ferns
I longed to see the colours of the playful birds in flight.
I was hungry for the textures that the senses could discern:
The gentle kiss of shadows, the tickling warmth of light.

In the hush, one early morning, I made a timid reach
And found the forms and motions of what was left of life.
My forest was still growing though through twisted scars of fear;
The horror had moved on, leaving back his mark of strife..

    Eons and ages have passed since that day
    Ages of birthings, ages of endings,
    Ages of letting the fear have its way
    While I view that which lives in my garden
    And I ask what it's like, in a garden.