I wanted to see the tea house
a bridge arching over water

I wanted to study Japanese maples
their fine-toothed fiery leaves

I wanted to bow my head to chance,
to a lantern, to stones placed in a wall

The paths led us down and down
far off we heard workmen building a road
overhead a jet scrawled a contrail note of farewell

If I wanted to kneel at the pond, it was to know
how like my mother I’ve become

I wanted to admire hydrangeas, exclaim
at a lace-cap two-color one—both blush pink

and purple, on one stem—taking a photo to share—
I wanted to touch the clapper in the bronze bell

at the gate, where two panels slide together,
each side making one half of the sun—

letting it sound and then be still
~Patricia Clark “Kubota Garden” from Self-Portrait with a Million Dollars

Stand still. The trees ahead and bushes beside you
Are not lost. Wherever you are is called Here,
And you must treat it as a powerful stranger,
Must ask permission to know it and be known.
The forest breathes. Listen. It answers,
I have made this place around you.
If you leave it, you may come back again, saying Here.
No two trees are the same to Raven.
No two branches are the same to Wren.
If what a tree or a bush does is lost on you,
You are surely lost. Stand still. The forest knows
Where you are. You must let it find you.
~David Wagoner “Lost”

Our grandchildren —
born in Tokyo, adapting to a rural life here —
bring within them the serenity
of the gardens they visited there,
finding respite from worldly worries and sorrows.

We remind them to love such stillness:
there is rest after busyness,
there is light beyond darkness,
there is peace amid chaos,
there are smiles after tears,
there is quiet within noisiness,
there is grace and mercy forever…

…as we who are older
give way to the new.