Sitting, now, on my garden bench, <br />relaxing, resting, <br />no longer toiling. <br />Quietly sitting, <br />eyes closed, <br />just listening. <br />Quietly, quietly <br />listening. <br />Evening approaching, <br />Mockingbird singing. <br />From high in a tree <br />it’s chirping. <br /> <br />Sitting, now, on my garden bench, <br />hose is watering, <br />ground is soaking, <br />vegies growing, <br />some blooming, <br />some ripening. <br />Across the field <br />a church bell chimes. <br />It’s tune comes wafting, <br />gently drifting, <br />across the evening air comes floating. <br /> <br />Sitting, now, on my garden bench, <br />the sun is setting, <br />dew is rising, <br />now on grass collecting. <br />Mockingbird silent, <br />now Whippoorwill calling, <br />his mate to him is answering. <br />Sun now sinking, <br />the air is cooling, <br />no bees a buzzing, <br />spiders now spinning. <br /> <br />Sitting, now, on my garden bench, <br />darkness encroaching, <br />settling, surrounding. <br />Over my shoulder <br />the moon is rising. <br />A mosquito droning, <br />I must get moving. <br />From my bench I’m leaving, <br />garden gate is closing. <br /> <br />Thank you God, <br />for the peace found in gardening, <br />and especially for the joy <br />of quiet meditating.<br /><br />Bruce Bigelow<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/in-my-garden/
