Herb garden poetry

Four white moths with four black spots worshiped the parsley

& I stood in the warmth of the sun

& fuzzy slippers watching their ritual.

Somewhere in the hidden space of the trees, a chipmunk chirped.

One, two, three, and then I lost count.

Buddha meditated amongst the ferns.

The breeze rustled the greens.

Many birds sang their happy tunes,

while one complained loudly at some unknown angst.

The hum of the world in the distance and overhead.

At the end of this moment in the herb garden, I knew,

while they worshiped that parsley and went about their lives,

I worshiped them all.

~magick~
Melissa