There is a secret garden
Within me
A place I go
Alone
To tend
To what is growing
No one has ever been there
Nor ever will
In that private place
Are the fragile seedlings
And the delicate buds
Of who I become
The me who writes these words
Has his roots
In that garden

I call it
The garden of tenderness
And beauty

What we nurture and tend to
Is what we become
It starts deep within.