I visited the garden deep in fall, 
after many trees had been robbed 
of their summer dress. 
The sun was slow to rise 
and even in midmorning slouched low 
as it strolled the southern sky. 
The garden centers on a pond, 
a mirror to the stones and trees 
edging its circumference.
While I stood beside it, 
no leaves fell, or even rustled; 
nature was at rest, 
serene.

My life, in contrast, has it’s share of waves. 
The churn of change disquiets me, 
Foundations roll and sway with the uncertainty. 
Would that everything was like 
this still and sheltered place.

I watch a while, and notice that the water 
wavers more than what had seemed at first. 
Rays of sun bounce off the ripples, 
then scan a rock that’s cornering a nearby island, 
so that lines of light rise softly up 
its shadowed side. 
Maybe this is what I need.to see 
Until death, there will always be a breath 
or more to break tranquility, 
but the resulting waves are just a way 
that light is lifted, lines moving in the dark.