I go to my garden to pray,
to give thanks to God for this day,
for the crickets and flowers and bees,
For the wonder of fruit ripe on trees,
I marvel as lady bugs light
on my arm, under sun, that is bright,
While green beans grow ripe on the vine,
In this wee patch of earth I call mine.
I talk to my Lord while I kneel
on the ground as my hands gently feel
for the weeds to be pulled, set aside,
For the cherry tomatoes that hide
Under the leaves, green and bright,
Safe in the knowledge that right
will prevail and my garden will grow,
These are the things that I know.
I go to my garden to pray.
to reflect on these gifts, every day,
Of grapes in the arbor, dark blue,
Waiting for harvesting, too.
Apple and fig, peach and plum,
Lemon and Orange in the sun,
Tangerine, nectarine grow
In tandem with lavender’s glow.
My trees all around are a steeple,
My temple abounds with ant-people,
How enormously blessed is this plot,
That God has bestowed, has He not?
While here in my garden, I pray,
I praise all the gifts He’s bestowing,
and ponder a lawn that needs mowing.
Sandra Lee Smith/February, 2009
*The place I was writing about was the Arleta house, where Bob & I lived for 19 years. and prior to those 19 years, I lived in the Arleta house from 1974 to 1979 with my family–I spent more time in this one place than anywhere else in my entire life.