by Tom Imerito
Because my native temper will not abide pretending to know what I cannot, I limit my belief in occult events to the evidence they leave behind. Such evidence I find in abundance when kneeling in my garden. There, I attend Mother Nature as she bestows life upon the lifeless elements of sunlight, water, gas and soil. There, immeasurably small particles of light make food for men and beasts.
GARDEN of MIRACLES
My garden is a portal to the miracles of Creation. A place to groom the earth with my hands; to savor its scent with my nose; to witness events mundane and miraculous.
That dandelion I pulled yesterday is blossoming today. What spunk. Oh look a radish leaf! How quick. In my garden I admix the gifts of sun and soil with the weary joy of my labors.
My garden has no steeple, but, on my hands and knees, sowing a seed or plucking a weed, or saving a worm from the claw’s steely teeth, the drip from on my brow and the ache in my back put me closer to Heaven than a prayer ever did.
My garden is a place to kneel and sweat a wordless, living prayer of Thanks for Life.
Mine. Yours. Theirs.