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    The Book of The Garden
    The Book of The Garden
    The Book of The Garden
    Ebook98 pages52 minutes

    The Book of The Garden

    By Richard Wehrman

    ()

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    About this ebook

    A poetic vision both alchemical and personally revealing, The Book of The Garden speaks to the deepest heart in each individual, opening the spiritual and transcendent through the simplest of presences, in what becomes the Garden we have all, since our childhood, longed to re-enter. And where we find that through the heart of love, and our own Creative Imagination, we can.
    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherBookBaby
    Release dateFeb 1, 2015
    ISBN9780991388219
    The Book of The Garden
    Author

    Richard Wehrman

    Award-winning illustrator Richard Wehrman was born in St. Louis and attended the Washington University school of fine arts. His paintings have been exhibited at the Saint Louis Art Museum, the St. Louis Artists' Guild, and Washington University. He was chosen as Rochester's Communicator of the Year for illustration and has received a gold medal from the Society of Illustrators. Richard serves on the board of directors of the Heartwork Institute and lives in Upstate New York.

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      Book preview

      The Book of The Garden - Richard Wehrman

      Merlinwood Books

      PO Box 146

      E. Bloomfield, NY 14443

      Copyright © 2014 by Richard Wehrman

      All rights reserved.

      First paperback edition published in 2014 by Merlinwood Books.

      First E-book edition published in 2015 by Merlinwood Books.

      Printed in the United States of America.

      Drawings by Richard Wehrman

      Paperback ISBN: 978-0-9913882-0-2

      E-Book ISBN: 978-0-9913882-1-9

      For Barbara Vincent, who dwells within the Garden

      TABLE OF CONTENTS

      THE GARDEN

      1

      2

      3

      4

      5

      6

      7

      8

      9

      10

      11

      12

      13

      14

      15

      16

      17

      18

      NAMING THE GARDEN

      1

      2

      3

      4.

      5

      6

      7

      8

      9

      FURTHER IN

      1

      2

      3

      4

      5

      6

      7

      8

      9

      10

      11

      12

      13

      14

      15

      16

      17

      THE ANGELS

      1

      2

      3

      4

      5

      6

      7

      8

      BEING IN THE GREEN WORLD

      1

      2

      3

      4

      5

      6

      7

      8

      9

      10

      11

      12

      13

      14

      15

      AUTUMN LIGHT

      1

      2

      3

      4

      5

      6

      7

      8

      9

      10

      11

      12

      13

      14

      THE GARDEN

      1

      When the searching died away,

      and the days grew long

      with distractions, with following

      blind alleys simply to keep

      the feet moving and the mind

      away from the dilemma,

      then it was that the silence resettled,

      and the dried leaves piled up

      in the cement corners, one atop the other.

      The white heat from the stucco

      and the emptiness of the dry fountains

      were fine as a memory

      but my ear was drawn by

      the green sound of water falling

      over hidden stones, and the scent of

      roses and mock orange, toward feminine

      laughter, a speech like flocks of

      water-birds whispering

      and there was such contentment to lie,

      half-concealed by the leaves, under the blue sky

      where the clouds billowed white

      and passed beneath the sun,

      opening veils over the hillside, welcoming the stars

      and the warmth of evening’s heaven.

      2

      One could step, I discovered, into

      one’s imagination and desire as though

      to a place, a world, a physical thing,

      and describe it from there, in

      a traveler’s notebook

      of love made manifest—

      how the gate glowed

      and the path began right there,

      on the other side of the fence, at

      the property’s edge,

      and rose through the weeds

      up the hill, paved and elusive

      with pears on one side

      and apples on the other.

      The sun was hot and dry, and

      the late July afternoon called the

      insects on a honeyed wind.

      Remnants of white marble eroded

      and covered my fingers with chalk;

      I lay down, owner and trespasser,

      interloper in earth’s dream of space,

      feeling beneath me the deep layers of pine

      needles, hickory nuts and bones, holding

      me up, singing me home.

      3

      Stepping through the gate there

      was no gate. The path began where my

      foot fell, the gravel raked clean

      with one golden leaf for effect

      where it settled, pulling me inward

      out of the shadows

      and each step was a summer, a cycle,

      a turning about of a bee or a bird, a sound

      sliding down a branch, the bark peeling

      into unexplored beauty, as ants shining

      in gold wound like a ribbon revolving

      about the tree, growing

      into the next moment. A fawn, flitting

      unseen, a fragment of gold curling, the flash

      of bare flesh—a shoulder, a twist—then

      the fur of a fox—red—blue with the blood of

      a bird dripping fire. The leaves blew

      upward in the wind, laughing

      as they moved—regal—king and queen

      of the unseen, just ahead on the path where

      one more step, stopped, was resumed only to settle,

      arrested, assaulted by scent, by the sweetness of evening,

      by the turn of the year to the flame of the stars,

      kissing me, incandescent.

      4

      Even before the words begin

      I can feel the pull, the flow forward,

      the invitation in to the green goldness,

      as though all barriers to my own being

      did not exist, as though a home

      had been built for me, and it was the world.

      I sat in the center of the garden, and

      wherever I stopped on my slow

      wandering was the center. I gazed over

      the sun-shimmering summer heat,

      and asked myself, the flowers, the grass:

      Why did I

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