A Rare Flower: A poem

Grrriiinnnggg! It’s morning.
I check the mirror and find myself set
Purposefully, I walk into the Garden where Adam once found himself alone
Taking a meditative stroll in the company of the early morning sun,
I see it
Either by coincidence or by Divine providence, I cannot tell
But it’s right there, in the far corner of the Garden
A young bud sprouting,
A rare species, a jewel in any man’s eyes,
So beautiful and natural,
Intoxicatingly delicate, the pick of them all.
Instantly, I’m in tune with it

Zzzuuuuppp! The Indian music in my ears stop and
I find out that I’m in a fix:
Do I leave it to nature, or do I protect it
from the many non-existent wandering predators of my imagination’s creation,
Who have no other agenda than devouring all in their paths.

For a while, I step back from the garden and withdraw into myself,
Only stepping out occassionally to discuss my plight
with the self-proclaimed elders in the perimeter of my consciousness

Yet, the familiar still small voice lovingly warns me
of all the dangers and perils of nipping a rare scion so soon.
Alas, my conceit captains the suggestions of the ‘know-alls’,
and they all urge me to follow my ‘seat of smartness’

I’m back in the Garden, and I tell my Self, ‘Fish out your bud’
I’m excited and carefully become a wee bit careless
However, with crude expertise, I cut it off,
from whence it knew as home.

I saddle myself
with the responsibility of fending for it.
It is resilient, and with a stubborn desire to survive.
It thrives, but only at its normal rate,
Not less, but I’d never know whether it could have been more

So, what was all my fuss about?
I commune with my heart,
during my pillow-talk at night.
And the intuitive, inner, inspirator interferes once more, saying,
‘The Father in His Nature wills the Perfect rather than the Permissive for His own’

I wake up.

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