The Garden
The garden that I keep with care
behind my house was seldom seen
until I made a hole through where
I now enjoy its bloom and green.
I framed and filled the hole with glass;
my picture window tall and wide
lets light and nature’s beauty pass
while biting insects stay outside.
My friends who visit often praise
my garden’s wealth of leaf and hue
as through my window awed they gaze,
enchanted by its stunning view.
“Like Adam’s Eden,” they concede.
“A paradise on earth,” they sigh,
“a refuge filling every need
of pilgrim, bird, or butterfly.”
All kinds of butterflies—it’s true—
have made my backyard home their own.
For hours I watch as they review
the different flowers therein grown.
They are most precious in my sight
of all that here delights my eyes.
It is that they might here take flight
I plant and tend this paradise.
And as they dance from bloom to bloom
and as they drink the nectar pure,
my garden gives them all the room
they need to live life safe and sure.
Compared with what sustains them here,
their time to live is brief; but, oh,
the import of that time—it’s clear—
if they depart, they come to know.
There is no need for them to stray;
my garden has all they must learn.
Yet, many, restless, lose their way
and wander off. Some don’t return.
Once, when I’d left ajar my door,
a curious wayward swallowtail
slipped in and started to explore
my strange, alluring three-walled jail.
She flew about without concern;
there was no danger; she could see
her swift escape, her quick return.
She’d have her fling and then fly free.
But when she’d come to realize
the peril of this strange new place,
she missed her former paradise
and fled, but fell in due disgrace.
The window’s glass that barred her way
mocked her with its perfect view,
as up and down, try as she may,
her tender wings could not break through.
In mercy came I to her aid
and tried to coax her out the door,
but every effort that I made
caused her to struggle all the more.
I gently offered her my hand,
entreating her to trust in me,
but could not make her understand
I had the means to set her free.
The power to erase past wrong
was far beyond her fragile strength,
but still she struggled hard and long
until, exhausted, she at length
onto my finger climbed to place
her hope in me and to my will
surrendered hers that through my grace
she might her penitence fulfill.
Then slowly, gently, with great care,
I carried her toward my door,
onto my porch, and down the stair
into my garden. But before
she flew away to join her friends,
she paused in prayer with lowered wing
as if to pledge she’d make amends
and ever more my mercy sing.
How often we, like butterflies,
though safe within the Savior’s Church,
believe the world’s seductive lies
and flutter off to vainly perch
or fly in corners dark and dim
and foolish leave behind what’s right
to find ourselves lost, trapped by sin,
then once again turn to the light
only to find our way is barred.
Still, long we struggle to break free,
until exhausted, bruised, and scarred,
we recognize submissively
that after all that we can do,
it’s only through our Savior’s grace
that we repentant can renew
the path that leads to His embrace.
He brings us safely back to where
like butterflies we take our flight,
into His garden, kept with care
for those most precious in His sight.
behind my house was seldom seen
until I made a hole through where
I now enjoy its bloom and green.
I framed and filled the hole with glass;
my picture window tall and wide
lets light and nature’s beauty pass
while biting insects stay outside.
My friends who visit often praise
my garden’s wealth of leaf and hue
as through my window awed they gaze,
enchanted by its stunning view.
“Like Adam’s Eden,” they concede.
“A paradise on earth,” they sigh,
“a refuge filling every need
of pilgrim, bird, or butterfly.”
All kinds of butterflies—it’s true—
have made my backyard home their own.
For hours I watch as they review
the different flowers therein grown.
They are most precious in my sight
of all that here delights my eyes.
It is that they might here take flight
I plant and tend this paradise.
And as they dance from bloom to bloom
and as they drink the nectar pure,
my garden gives them all the room
they need to live life safe and sure.
Compared with what sustains them here,
their time to live is brief; but, oh,
the import of that time—it’s clear—
if they depart, they come to know.
There is no need for them to stray;
my garden has all they must learn.
Yet, many, restless, lose their way
and wander off. Some don’t return.
Once, when I’d left ajar my door,
a curious wayward swallowtail
slipped in and started to explore
my strange, alluring three-walled jail.
She flew about without concern;
there was no danger; she could see
her swift escape, her quick return.
She’d have her fling and then fly free.
But when she’d come to realize
the peril of this strange new place,
she missed her former paradise
and fled, but fell in due disgrace.
The window’s glass that barred her way
mocked her with its perfect view,
as up and down, try as she may,
her tender wings could not break through.
In mercy came I to her aid
and tried to coax her out the door,
but every effort that I made
caused her to struggle all the more.
I gently offered her my hand,
entreating her to trust in me,
but could not make her understand
I had the means to set her free.
The power to erase past wrong
was far beyond her fragile strength,
but still she struggled hard and long
until, exhausted, she at length
onto my finger climbed to place
her hope in me and to my will
surrendered hers that through my grace
she might her penitence fulfill.
Then slowly, gently, with great care,
I carried her toward my door,
onto my porch, and down the stair
into my garden. But before
she flew away to join her friends,
she paused in prayer with lowered wing
as if to pledge she’d make amends
and ever more my mercy sing.
How often we, like butterflies,
though safe within the Savior’s Church,
believe the world’s seductive lies
and flutter off to vainly perch
or fly in corners dark and dim
and foolish leave behind what’s right
to find ourselves lost, trapped by sin,
then once again turn to the light
only to find our way is barred.
Still, long we struggle to break free,
until exhausted, bruised, and scarred,
we recognize submissively
that after all that we can do,
it’s only through our Savior’s grace
that we repentant can renew
the path that leads to His embrace.
He brings us safely back to where
like butterflies we take our flight,
into His garden, kept with care
for those most precious in His sight.
Poet‘s comments about “The Garden”
Our memory seems to hold on to concrete experience much better than to abstract ideas. Christ authored numerous parables that use ordinary concrete objects and experience to teach important gospel principles. Countless more metaphorical correspondences between the details of life and eternal truths still wait to be discovered. In another poem I say “every object from nature’s collection has a lesson for me.” I was in a cabin in Costa Rica when this one came. The cabin’s front porch was enclosed in glass, except for the door, allowing its occupants to sit comfortably and watch intermittent eruptions and lava flows from the active volcano Arenal looming before them. Outside the cabin was a beautiful garden filled with wonderfully colored blooms and butterflies. My experience that Sunday morning with one of those butterflies, my love for gardening, and my concern for the youth of the Church combined to produce this parable poem.
