She tended her garden in wildness and fine private laughter.
In glory of vegetable and gladness of flower.
One seed for the bird. One seed for the bee.
One seed for the oppossum, and one seed for me.
That way she planted and that way it grew,
with never a touch of a poisionous brew.
Cardinal in the Elder, Squirrel in the Oak,
Wren in the Cherry, and all of them spoke.
Their songs in the morning called her to wake.
She tended her garden for everyones sake.
The kitten that rested under the vine,
the hummingbird that visited at migration time.
The oppossum that waddled by in the night,
and butterflys in the bright morning light.
"Welcome, O welcome, my friends," she does call,
"My gardens four courners has room for you all."

This is the front gate to the garden at the edge of Broceliande.

Welcome and Blessed Bee