Longwood Gardens

Michael's mother came to visit and we went to Longwood Gardens for the afternoon, after that the doctor visit that inspired the last post.  Because I was apparently feeling poetic that day, I also wrote a poem about Longwood Gardens, though it took me a few more days to put together.  I'm still not entirely pleased with it, but I wanted to share it here.


There is a place in Southeastern Pennsylvania
where a man with more money than he knew what to do with
decided to plant all the plants he could find
And hire as many men and women add he could to tend the plants
and be stewards of truth and beauty in his new Eden.
And several decades later, maybe a hundred years--
I don't really know the history--
I paid $18 at a counter at the front gate
for a chance, to see the man's enduring collection.
I am thankful for this man who did not drink his fortune,
who did not take Gatsby as his model,
but instead dedicated himself to planting peaches,
training bonsais,
and collecting palms,
if only for his own pleasure.
I am thankful because I am losing my battle against cynicism,
and I am beginning to suspect that what men say about God might be true:
He is old, useless, and irrelevant.
But here, my tired spirit rises and sings,
joining the chorus of creation.
God loves me, God loves us.
In fact, he is lavish and exaggerated and over the top,
what with these ridiculous colors, fuzzy plants, and oversized lily pads.
The problem isn't that God is dead, but that we aren't paying attention.
It shouldn't take billionaires and patience through east coast rage-traffic,
but, unfortunately,
it does take that.