The Garden

© Vizafotodreamstime_xs_26706325


Before any of the worlds began,


Before the wind spoke,


Before thought or word came to be,


The first flowers awoke


And opened their lilac eyes to scan


The delicate drift of wandering mist


Lilies in the earliest light,


In the dewdrops shining before


The sun could ride


Across the wide




Before the moon and the stars could sail


Over the mountain,


Only flowers were there then,


On the hillside,


With leaves of emerald,


Stems warm in the earthen soil,


Petals unfolding into jewels of amethyst


Rose, gold, and green,


The blue lotus opalescent in the rains of dawn,


Only flowers,


Not much more –


And also all and every living soul,




Who are the one eternal soul,


Now, after the eldest cities from the farthest lands


Are gone


The way of the deeps,


Where the scale of the fish gleams


In the indigo waters,


By the graves


Of artifacts unfound,


Lost by the daughters


Of the dark-gowned


Orb of the moon,


With so little culled


From toil


In the time-worn sands,


All the ages gone


In the shifting winds of samsara


In the end,


Do you wonder what might be or why?




All will fold up again


Into the rain-winged mist,


Into the peace of the flowering bowers


Of Brahman –


Narayana, soul of the stars and the song-told tale


Of the sacred tree,


Narayana, the one who sleeps,


And sometimes dreams,


In the bright,


Blossoming waves,


On the folded coil


Of Adi Shesha,


By the rock-lit shoal


Of the ever-sounding sea.



©  2015, Sharon St Joan


Photo: © Vizafoto /



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