Poetry

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At home upon a street of normal gait
Then shadowed by that apostolic town
The Mindless Gardener left the outer door
And softly ‘laxed his knees beside the soil.
In went the shovel, out came blackened clods
And so unmade the shape of God’s fair hand
Because of higher thoughts than deist rights
He desired to rather use pow’r to grow.
In went the seeds, God’s second, better mind,
And over them the gardener poured the soil
He resigned each of them to mindful fate
Sure of Providence’s timely descent.

Then spoke the Mindless Gardener from his knees,
Hear me, Almighty God and grow my garden
As once you spoke and made Eden spring forth
So bless your creation and its proprietor.

Resuming his position at his home,
The Mindless Gardener waited to be blessed
As often told in scriptures he once read
For if the father farmers found such grace,
Should not their sons receive similar gifts?
Thus he eyed the Father’s well-working.

As all the world cycled through heated days,
The Mindless Gardener faithfully observed
His providential garden weather time.
One early day, a neighbor came and told
The Mindless Gardner where he found the truth.

Your Garden, Sir, it has aged nine weeks
And yet I see nothing but weeds and brush
Growing over the grave of those dear seeds
Which you have so callously neglected.
You are a liar, my friend, for you will
Have none of which you promised Almighty
God when you knelt to plant your promised crop.
You are accursed, so God has said to me,
For he who lies is of the Devil’s part
And you are one more burning stick again
Snatched from the chained fire of the fall.

So spake the neighbor in his righteous mind
To which the Mindless Gardener ne’er replied.
He only smiled and watched his garden grow
In God’s time, not his own conceited clock.

But then came nine more weeks and not a sprout
Appeared except for baleful weeds and grime.
Again the righteous neighbor hopped the fence:
You fail your creator, Mindless Gardener,
For you do not trust with your hands, only
Your mind remains astute while physical
Faculties leave you every waking day.
Assuredly you are choked from the Lord
You murderer of God’s creative gift!
Should fallen angels falsely call, you would
Desert even Abdiel’s loyal turn,
And down to the most barren place you still
Would feel at home, as you so now agree.
God’s providence will never touch the soil
Of such an idle, mindless gardener.
And so he parted finally away.

To the Mindless Gardener still well in mind,
Alive in Spirit, steady in his will,
The diatribe fell harmlessly to naught.
Still, the Gardener Mindlessly awaited
God’s good time for providence’s timely
Arrival at his soil, with joy unveiled
And faith withstanding on his happy face.

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