She waits at her gate,
patient with the silence,
yet sensing the cooler, more dusky air
filling the empty places
of the waning afternoon sun. 

Then, a small orchestra of crickets
begin to tune up their tiny fine instruments. 

Uncomfortable in body,
her mind wanders to memories
now behind her.

How she should have never entertained it,
when her heart was saying no.  

And how that thing that appears good,
so easily becomes enemy to the best.

Oh how long it’s been now,
and how hard to get back! 

A sensible decision – (so she thought)
to take the heat off. 
But with no heat, is no joy,
and to live a slave life is drudgery.

“Oh my garden, my garden, how precious you were!”
she cried.

Suddenly from inside her garden,
she hears a familiar voice respond,
”No, my Bride, how precious you are!”

The Voice of Perfect Love casts out all fear of punishment.
And His gentleness makes me strong again.
~ from 1 John 4:18 & Psa.18:35

She passes by her garden,
much of its fruit now eaten by foxes, and overgrown with weeds;
on her way back from another place, that she tends instead.

With tears in her eyes she stops,
remembering how that it was here, that the handsome King found her,
in this place of young romantic dreaming.

Why has her desire been
to please her mother’s sons,
who secretly despise her gift,
and help them in their vineyards instead?

Her garden was an inheritance,
a gift from her doting father;
a playground of delights and adventure,
which a woman rarely gets.

And in this place her passions
had found sacred expression,
and her Creator’s love,
watching over her,
gave her peace.

“Is there hope for this place again?”
she wondered.

A breeze rustled in the trees,
dancing back and forth as if
to hopefully get her attention.

Ever so tentatively,
she whispered,

“Yes Lord, I’m listening.”