A garden for rest, respite, and revisiting thoughts -- or having no thoughts.
The flowers whisper with me; be still as the wind bows down, a whiff, and a lighter, heart-felt song of a stringed tempest.
A past that is at once familiar: A window opens then shifts before my body-self can understand.
It’s all right. Everything’s as it should be. The tempest came as I called it (just now), tickling me. I feel love wrapped in awe. Everything’s alive.
Thoughts are most crucial and must be guided.
I guard, and my guardian guards me, ancestors of the past?
I recall these things as I sit in this garden, the flowers speak to me: watch and listen, they show me. They do not “tell” me.
Pink slides romantic notions, yellow and gold, the sun’s glory unfolds, deep pink in longing and desire. Green heals; it absorbs and gives nourishment, ideas, and inspiration.
White bleeding hearts dip languidly, peacefully; everything around me, coalesces, more swirls form, again, a tempest spins into this spot I sit in the garden.
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