In My Garden Poem by Bruce Bigelow

Sitting, now, on my garden bench,
relaxing, resting,
no longer toiling.
Quietly sitting,
eyes closed,
just listening.
Quietly, quietly
listening.
Evening approaching,
Mockingbird singing.
From high in a tree
it’s chirping.

Sitting, now, on my garden bench,
hose is watering,
ground is soaking,
vegies growing,
some blooming,
some ripening.
Across the field
a church bell chimes.
It’s tune comes wafting,
gently drifting,
across the evening air comes floating.

Sitting, now, on my garden bench,
the sun is setting,
dew is rising,
now on grass collecting.
Mockingbird silent,
now Whippoorwill calling,
his mate to him is answering.
Sun now sinking,
the air is cooling,
no bees a buzzing,
spiders now spinning.

Sitting, now, on my garden bench,
darkness encroaching,
settling, surrounding.
Over my shoulder
the moon is rising.
A mosquito droning,
I must get moving.
From my bench I’m leaving,
garden gate is closing.

Thank you God,
for the peace found in gardening,
and especially for the joy
of quiet meditating.