Gardening with Granite
A tree full of rocks
In the garden of granite
One can never be too sure
Of what is found growing there.
Like sliding faces, drooping tears
Bony hips abound.
Rappelling needles slip to depths
Of twinkling pooling light
Born of the surface hard and still
In gardens made of granite.
Mystery dowsed with curiosity’s sweat
Only to make some sweeter thought,
‘Tis the difference between now and then
Rivaling that of summer and winter
Pushing the envelope of warmth,
Allowing a space for acceptance
Of what has always been.