The Garden Of Your... Poem by A. P. Hancock

Come with me to a garden place, that's rich with colors bright
It isn't what you think it is, it's more than petals white

It's not a orchard made with hands, at least not hands of clay
And this one never wilts or dies, it's full of life each day

The flowers here are special ones, they bloom when clouds arise
They bloom when thunder rolls on down, they bloom amid the cries

They bloom when lightening strikes its flash, they bloom in scorching heat
They bloom in fierce tornadic winds, they bloom in sad defeat

They bloom when waves come crashing down, they even bloom in fire
They bloom no matter what the case, they bloom in muck and mire

How can this be you ask me now, this garden that transcends
It's quite a simple thing you know, it's the garden of your friends