An angel is my gardener
whose work I marvel at each day:
the rambling rose bush near my house,
its dew-kissed buds, their sweet bouquet.
Hydrangeas bloom by bleeding hearts.
Nasturtiums grow capriciously
while bright pink phlox has now sprung up
amidst the ferns suspiciously.
A botanist, un grande artiste,
she glorifies each plant and tree.
They prosper, thrive because she has
a peerless virtuosity.
At night she works her miracles,
her magic tools invisible.
She fertilizes every plant
with stardust, moon beams bountiful.
I'm sure while sitting on a cloud
she heeds requests from feathered friends.
"Thick leaves to hide our nests," they say,
"ripe berries 'fore this summer ends."
And on her arm a dove alights.
"A peaceful place on earth," it coos,
"is what all creatures need the most.
New Eden that we won't abuse."
She hears a hymn from other birds.
A warbler sings, so does a wren,
three mockingbirds, a meadow lark.
"Oh, cherub sweet, Amen! Amen!"
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Author Notes
The painting is courtesy of Google images.
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