The Garden Gate by Jean L. Connor
I’m leaving town today to visit my parents. As my mother has splendid gardens, I thought I’d share this poem. P.S. PotD might not appear again until after my trip (then again, it may).
The Garden Gate
By Jean L. Connor
You will not forget the pungency
of sage, nor the grace of pink oxalis.
Yield yourself. Let the night come,
for everything, in its turn,
has its going down to darkness.
Slip through the unlatched gate,
there, at dusk, the cottage garden,
fragrant, white, lies
trellised to the moon
and there the hermit thrush
sings, “Oh holy, holy-ah, purity,
purity-ee. Sweetly, sweetly.”
Listen, for without flute,
I sing a credo, too,
and as I sing my “Holy, holy,”
I offer my blind sight to you.
Current Tea: Clarksville cordial (Indian Korakundah Estate black tea with ginger, orange, & peach)
