The Journey

The Journey
Anonymous

A woman’s heart is like A field of roses
A man is like a gardener who wants to have the flowers for his own
To just cut the fence surrounding the field seems easiest,
But once he gets in, he feels like trespasser.
He tramples many of the tender flowers underfoot.
Finally he stumbles out of the field, and he is crushed
when he looks back and sees the way he smashed and broke the flowers,
his clothes are ragged from the thorns that he carelessly trampled through.

Yet the honest gardener will buy the field
Make it his forever, and get the key.
Once he opens the gate, he walks along the path
Admiring the beauty of what he has worked for.
The journey does not stop though.
A raw field can always be touched up to make it better.
The loving hands of this gardener taking out weeds and trimming thorns,
Watering the flowers, tending the shrubs and watching the seasons pass.

Before long both gardener and field wonder how they lived separated
The gardener loves nothing more than to nurture and care for the field,
And the roses hardly could live without his care.
Neither one feels it is serving the other.
They go together perfectly. It is a symbiosis.
There are times when the gardener forgets to give the care he should,
and there are times when despite his care the flowers refuse to bloom.
Sometimes the winters nearly drive the gardener out of the field.

And yet because the love they have for each other they carry on
Years go by, every day the gardener discovering something new
Parts of the field he never even imagined existed.
Under the surface of flowers he may find weeds and rocks,
yet the next day he might find a precious gem.
To him, every day is an adventure and he will never tire of studying his field.
The mystery is never old, and he studies the field every day of his life.

The gardener picks blooms and holds them to his chest.
Yet he always replaces the ones he picks with fresh seedlings to take their place.
As he grows older he keeps changing,
Soon he is just happy to sit in the shade of the tree and enjoy
The work of his hands showing amongst the natural beauty of the field
The flowers look back and see the gentle gardener
The one who was once a wild lad,
now tamed into the tender gardener.

The seasons come and go,
The flowers begin to fade
The gardener slows more and more by the day.
Yet both field and gardener are happy.
Finally the day comes when death must take it’s toll.
The old gardener lies at rest under the willow
The stream flowing nearby,
Clasped in his hand are the last few wilted roses.
Yet this is not the end, it is only the beginning...