Statue In the Garden
by Newton Miner
Here is noon home, here is but wildernesse.
- Chaucer, Trouthe
Daily we drown in moral atrophy.
Maturity, it seems, is what we learn
from the smooth face of deceit at every turn.
Blight and brambles of love infect TV.
Theft, abandon, gunfire soil the street.
Where are the certainties for which we yearn?
The trek is still through wilderness, alone.
In aimless walk one day my sullen feet
found an old churchyard where a cluttered path
wound into garden now a growth gone wild.
There, among vines, half-hidden, like a wraith,
a statue stood with mystery in His smile
and arms extended forth to tangled earth
to come and rest in peace a little while.
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