The Poplar Grove Muse: I am G

I am G

I sit in my garden, touched by the soft morning light. My arms rest comfortably on my knees and my curved back is tucked into a prickly bush. The thorny barbs do not worry my tough stony hide and I am content to survey my kingdom from this vantage point. My gray-pebbled skin has a blue-green cast that ripples and bulges into deep muscles and graceful lines. I am the gargoyle G, I am small for my kind but not the smallest of my brethren. I am the guardian here and watch over my garden and all who live here. Some say I have a melancholy expression. I think it is my downcast eyes, but I am not melancholy, just watchful. My ears, always alert, are tuned to the cadence around me and they never mistake the garbled language of the earth dwellers with the thrumming voices of the nectar seekers.

My garden sets like the centerpiece of a crown, fitting snugly into the setting of swaying bowers that tower above me. Penetrating shards of light dart through the emerald canopy, showcasing the jewels below. Purples and pinks careen with reds and yellows. Some hug tightly to the earth, needing to be securely nestled to its bosom. While others throw caution to the wind, sending capricious buds soaring into the sky. The stone paths attempt to contain the rioting shoots, but fail. The leafy stalks spill over, eager to offer their jewel-flavored blossoms. I can hear their whispered siren songs calling to the winged ones. The preening blooms compete in a beauty pageant. They are eager to begin their reign as the most beguiling, most enticing, most sought after.

Like living petals the butterflies dance across the garden. Vivid counterpoints, they offer iridescent oranges and blues to the palette. Moving freely among the waiting blossoms they make their selections. Sampling those with the sweetest song before flitting to the next. Engrossed in their mission the bees search each blossom efficiently; the striped, lumbering bumblebee’s rumble mixing with the honeybee’s soprano tones.

I feel the fast beating hearts of the feathered winged ones. They are brilliant rockets that zoom through the garden. Always rushing, always on urgent business. When they finally find their perch, they stridently share their story, determined someone must listen to their tale. Theirs is a complicated language full of drama and pathos.

Marching in regimented lines the tiny ones hurry across the stones. Laden with their bounty they slip into the crevices, finding the entrance to the sprawling city bustling below my splayed feet. In silent communication, they sing of the trail to treasures. Their song vibrates in the ground and is heard as one voice.