In the garden the door is always open into the holy –
growth, birth, death.
Every flower holds the whole mystery in its short cycle,
and in the garden we are never far away from death,
fertilizing, good, creative death.
Every year the unseen becomes visible as new life explodes from quiet, dark, sustaining wombs. Beneath the soil roots grow and above the surface tiny leaves yield proof of life. Enlivening rains come, and the leaves grow. Daylight hours lengthen, and they grow more. Amid the leaves emerge buds, and they grow. Buds burst into flowers, the flowers fade, and their petals fall. Fruits, seed heads, or pods appear, and they ripen. Fruits are harvested, seeds are spilled onto the soil, and buds are set inside woody canes or branches. Then comes the time of rest, the discontinuance of the same, the different new genesis. The beginnings, the middles, the ends–never an ending without a beginning–never a beginning without an ending, so goes the cyclic constancy of a garden.
The land produced vegetation; plants bearing seed according to its kinds and trees bearing fruit with seed in it according to their kinds. And God saw that it was good. ~Genesis 1:12 ✝