• Grant Handgis ~ Author/Poet

"A Stranger in the Garden"

Our Hacienda in Mismaloya, Mexico was walled in all around the back of the property, leaving a lot of room for exploration, being the vegetative state of that arena was tropical jungle. Lots of wild critters living and roaming about, especially at night. I wrote this just after a little black feline came sauntering through the wrought iron gate into the back, mewing loudly, telling us of her natural young fears, as well as her hunger. She became Luna Medianoche, our Jaguarita. . .

A Stranger in the Garden

The softened earth which knew the feel of spade

holds the fertile secret of the garden, and

promotes the dahlias bid for supreme reign

over their lordly manor, the blackened environs

where secrets dangle on the lips of buried souls

Within these walls we've come to call our home

is sanctuary to our lesser hopes, inducing slumber

for the wisdom of our retreat, these grounds of hidden

pleasure, a gracious host of accessibility

a dormant realm in wait of the gardener's golden heart

We mellow in this feral realm with empty hands, and

hungry mind to grasp the secrets of the heart

where inquiry is the road to loftier pastures

beyond delight, and hunger of the soul the chosen

path, strides along the weary march to greater freedom

The garden still holds the secrets of the fertile

soil, where roots and mortals seek their sustenance

in buried truths of ages gone before, the graves

endeavor hides the frozen smiles, and silent sighs

are elemental chorus, to unremitting songs of earthly death

We hold close our secrets of the heart, in guarded care

as buried treasures of the hunt, lying fallow beneath the

islands of passing time, a pirate's wait to farming them in

pursuit of sporting profits, to spend in quest of earthly

splendor, but lost to storms which scuttle our adventure

There is a stranger in the garden of our domain

a wistful breeze of fate, masquerading our lofty wing

of flight, and the winsome face of a solitary kitten lies

etched on the trenchant shadows of our busy lives

which taste the bud of freedom, smell the hearth of home

And home we carry with us, like the refuge of these walls

the nurturing of the garden's soil wrapped about us easily

in woven memories of our days as humble gardeners,

turning the earth beneath our feet, in search of our own

hidden treasures, which lie in wait of blooming, and resolute hands

Grant Handgis

Copyright 1997-2011


g. Michael Handgis Photography


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