A Poem

Walking in plantations green and lush.

A privileged moment.

A moment of hush.

Who made our world? Who made the flowers and the cocoa trees?
 Who made the midges and the sand flies?


  

This is the garden that supplies our need, 

this honeybee, I mean this one, here, who has landed on the flower next to me, 

this one who is collecting nectar from flower to flower in my garden, who is moving his bottom up and down back forth, collecting the cherry blossom pollen.

Who made him?

Now he snaps his wings together, and flies away.
 

This is the garden that supplies our need. 

Too green and beautiful to be abused with greed.

I don't know exactly what to do. You can’t fix this one.  He’s gone. He’s on his way. 

A moment here.

A moment gone.

A moment’s mindfulness gives me peace.

I pay attention, how the grass feels under my feet, cool and comforting, I remember how to kneel down in the grass. 

This is how to be idle and love the moment,  to stroll through my garden, which is what I would do all day.


Tell me, what else can I do and what could I have done?

Doesn't everything die one day, and always far too soon?

So I wonder what is it I must plan to do?

And how will I live this now -  my one wild and precious life?

Vanessa Kimbell 

Sitting in the garden. Remembering Mott.