We come to the Gardens to worship the tulips, share stale-bread communion at the pond, count blessings and ducklings. Via the conifer way, a spell in the herb garden, there’s healing and refreshment, fragrance and cool green.
We’re glad that we don’t have to weed these edges, or drive the garbage truck, or clean the loos. When we get home, forgive us if we put food scraps down the insinkerator because we can’t make compost in the apartment, or forget to plant a native tree when we fly long distance.
Petition and Intercession
The hothouse is full of people and begonias and ferns, the lily pads aren’t big enough, yet, for frogs; and squealing kids try to catch the fish. Remind us not to grumble when it’s stuffy and humid (especially in overcoats against the breeze) or when people stop in front of us, cameras poised where we’re trying to walk, and the souvenirs are ridiculous prices.
Adoration and Praise
As the tulips die down, roses come into leaf; there are shady paths to walk on, poppies, delicate and strong, and the year-round cottage garden. Worldly-wise teenagers gather for picnics; middle-aged lovers believe their luck at last; there are blue and white irises and opportune seats.
We put our litter in the bin, and resolve to plant our own tomatoes next year, and reduce our carbon emissions by taking the bus or walking.
For the daffodils and jonquils, for magnolias and lilies; for colours, shapes and fragrance; for our city’s public gardens and the Aotearoa springtime, we give thanks.