The strangely happy thing about our garden
Is that it is always perfect
And yet never finished
It is always just right as it is
And yet always becoming something else

Not becoming
More perfect
Or better
Or kinder
Or gentler
Or wiser
Or more spiritual

Not always becoming
Brighter
Or more colorful

Not always becoming
Growth
And abundance

Sometimes becoming
Death
And decay

Sometimes becoming
Waiting
And barreness

Its perfection in every moment
Is inescapably always becoming