THE GARDEN BY JOHN LARS ZWERENZ

THE GARDEN                                                                                                                               Lavender enthroned, beneath blue skies,                                                                                            The breath of the Lord                                                                                                                      Praises Mary                                                                                                                                       With music in the garden.                                                                                                                                   In sun imbued rains                                                                                                                              Near the strophic sea                                                                                                                        Near the emerald glen,                                                                                                                        Her solemn brown eyes                                                                                                                          In the amber silhouette of a willow tree                                                                                         Emanate the strains                                                                                                                               Of harmonious oboe and a harpsichord.                                                                                             And when soft, solemn vespers rise                                                                                                       In the sanctity of the sacred bower                                                                                                     Over azure streams where the morning lark flies                                                                                   In the sacred reverence of the holy hour                                                                                         Devoid of all pain                                                                                                                                She walks in the long, voluptuous calms                                                                                               Of the matin sun                                                                                                                              Which trails down through the boughs like rain                                                                                     As God's true favored chosen one.                                                                                                     And as I pine for the warmth of her maternal arms                                                                              Her beauteous body, scented with its own choice perfumes                                                                        Leaves in its wake where a symphony looms                                                                                   Gold, thyme and a scarlet red.                                                                                                            And as I fan her hair                                                                                                                            And her pale, fair                                                                                                                        Forehead                                                                                                                                                  I can only sigh                                                                                                                                       As she wanders, dreaming, slowly by                                                                                                    In the bright, sunny cradle of the florid garden close                                                                      Passed the statues and the fountains                                                                                                    In the square beyond the mountains,                                                                                                More lovely than the summer rose.                                                                                                   John Lars Zwerenz