Wayne Orr

In the quiet morning light, I tread,
To the garden where my dreams are fed.
With gentle hands and patient heart,
I tend to my harvest, a work of art.

Each seed I plant, a hope I sow,
Nurtured by the sun’s warm glow.
Water and care, day by day,
Watching as my efforts pay.

The sprouts emerge, timid and small,
Yet with time, they grow tall.
Leaves unfurl, blossoms bloom,
Filling the air with sweet perfume.

I watch with joy, a tender pride,
As my garden thrives, no longer hide.
The fruits of labor, ripe and sweet,
A testament to the care I meet.

In this cycle of growth and yield,
I find a peace, a boundless field.
Tending to my own harvest true,
I watch it grow, and my heart renews.