My hands they till this good earth, to bring forth beauty and what is of worth. At dawn to plant, at dusk to reap with such tools as is meet to use but ever are my hands the engine of creation in this little place and if lax in my care I seem give but time and a little bit of grace.
Black and red are the lands that I prefer, where always there be green, in spring and fall and high tide summer. The dry and sandy places, of my skill there I can find no traces.
But a poor druid am, I leave it unto others to bring forth Eden under barren desert sky.
Still my hands unquiet move, here to trim, there cut, there to prove. In my quiet little garden, I paint the world with blossom and with garland.
I dream to bring forth here in this gentle place, the druids’ peace that transcends all of time and faith and race.
Every life is welcome here, from those upon the wing to those who live below and never see the sky come clear.
Out among the roses do I bide in the quiet calm and wait for more to come. The lavender and mint and honey-mild bee balm. I have sown them all perhaps they’ll grow whether all or some.
Catnip brings those who go on fours, here they’ll keep the peace, there food enough indoors.
Snapdragons bleeding bright, draw all who seek rest and show the path aright.
Here among the trees and light, no better temple could I ask, for the fostering of life is a good and holy task.
Welcome to Grove my little piece of home. Come and let be healed the hurts of heart and hand and bone.