Come into the Garden Maud

by Narion Sharville

Much maligned myopic Malcolm,
meaning to mow the lawn in March,
missed that month but managed May
In the meantime, the grass had grown
monumentally much more.
Maud, meandering and meditating
among the magnificent Marigolds,
is mercilessly mown down
by the mechanical mower,
manifesting immediately
into minced morsels.
Miserable, mal-adjusted Malcolm,
missing Maud, muddled in mind, mopes,
muses on her mysterious metamorphosis.
Meanwhile, Maud, macerating
in her moist compost mausoleum,
is maturing into a malodorous
magnificent mulch.


The open gates of book
and verse and speech and glance
invite us just inside to chase
the butterflies of thought
that light upon our ignorance;

to gaze upon soft vistas,
pearl-covered with the dew
of age-old wisdom nourishing
the frail hypothesis, the struggling
seeds of something new.

We are free to wander
each newfound path that winds,
to crush the weeds of prejudice
and pluck the buds of truth
from the magic gardens of our minds.

© Marion Sharville

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