Month 16: December

This life is like a garden view

all painted with its gentle hues

When on the hill we see it plain

But from inside we have to strain

To see it through the window.

When seeing through the window pane

you stop and stretch to stare

You come to believe that what you see

Is all that's really there.

The window, smudged and very dim

Obscures the view and makes it grim

And we then hate what we can see

for it's not what we think it should be

As we look through the window

And the longer that we spend inside

The more bitter we become:

"The plants are dead, the soil is dry!"

Is the resentful song that's sung.

Then suddenly we have the key

To open the door, so we march to see

The garden for our very eyes

But on that hill, to our surprise

It's not as it was through the window.

The grass is alive, the soil is damp!

How silly we must have been

To imagine something so foolish and vain

Because of our view from within.

This life is like a garden view

all painted with its gentle hues

When on the hill we see it plain

But from inside we have to strain

To see it through the window.