To this house, a gardener born:
Her hand in this, the task of dirt.
Raised on branches and wildflowers,
She is living on the edge of her euphorbia.
Tilling breastly mounds of such soft earth,
She coaxes timid flora from shy buds, and see:
Here she floats down shaded garden path,
Draped in garlands of beautybush and rain tree blossoms.
Listen quietly as sighs of fairies sing softly through this,
Her earthly world, and rustling branches
Speak secrets only she and elves know.
Would you not spend the evening thus
Entwined and sleeping amongst the
Beds of this earnest and greenest gardener?
Then sleep you now, and her perfumed boughs will
Rock you sway to your sweetest infant’s dream,
And too soon you will awaken to soft light,
As this fair gardener brings dawn to her fairest garden.