Garden

 
The live bird-of-paradise tree blooms
beside the young juniper on the south side
of our yard by the cinderblock wall,

whereas the dead bird-of-paradise branches
are brown, droopy, and leafless
on the dead tree beside the picket fence—

as if someone, maybe God, were illustrating
a lesson for me when I happened to
come out to the back this morning

while it’s still cool enough to sit and
look around, find something stimulating
for the mind locked inside a body

that’s continuously aging
as the mind tries to remain alert
to the beauties life exhibits, the sun

rising as it does each morning
and I, along for the ride, realizing
I won’t be able to continue rising

forever—“for ever”—a concept
my body has quietly assumed since birth
even though knowing there’s no way

it can be true, true only for as long
as I’m around to believe it,
just as earth and the universe it

rotates and glows inside of
will continue only
for as long as I can see it.