“I think that if ever a mortal heard the voice of God it would be in a garden at the cool of the day.” — Frank Frankfort Moore
In the garden Christ walks in the garden, yes, this spring-fresh orchard where gaudy peacocks strut, where incipient apples grow and the trees speak to me of bearing his weight, while bluebells shoot their vivid heads skyward to match the now droopy tulips, and green plants emerge blinking into the sun like newly startled birds before the heavy, drenching rainstorm comes. Christ walks in the garden of my soul — he comes barefoot and vulnerable, with a steady tread firm and purposeful, as he hopes I will notice his presence, fragrant as the morning dew I prepare to dip my toes into, and rise refreshed as if I’ve experienced peerless peace and rest. © joylenton
“I love to think of nature as an unlimited broadcasting station through which God speaks to us every hour, if we will only tune in.” — George Washington Carver
Poetry Joy 