A Woman's Secret Garden
There was once a woman who lived alone in a beautiful house. Over the course of time many young men came and knocked on her door, offering her flowers. Many times she kept her door closed but twice over the years she found the flowers so beautiful that she felt they would look well in her house.
Twice she took them with pleasure and twice the thorns hidden amongst the stems and the leaves tore at her skin causing her blood and her tears to flow. Twice the flowers withered and began to poison the air, and twice the woman knew that she had to get them out of her house even though a few of them had produced seedlings that were alive and beautiful.
Many moons passed and the woman no longer wished to receive flowers. Instead she began to work her own garden and care for the new shoots as they grew and blossomed through the seasons.
One day a man passed close by the woman's garden and saw her flowers. He carried no bouquet himself but rather held the seeds from his own garden deep within his pocket. He stopped for a while and spoke about himself for he was at a turning point in his journey and needed to consider.
She invited him into her garden so that he could reflect and she could better hear his words. The sun and moon exchanged their places in the sky many times whilst the man considered which road to take, and she was glad for the times he came to her garden for she felt that he valued the peace that it offered him.
One day he knew in himself which way to go and began preparing to leave.
Before he left he gave the woman a gift which she knew to be very precious. When he had gone she knew that it was important for her to plant it in the right place for it was a seed containing great beauty but that could grow dangerous thorns if not sown in a place of complete freedom.
She therefore took the seed and blessed it, placing it carefully not within the heavy soil of earth, but in the finer borders of her secret garden where she could gather the blossoms and breathe the perfumes into her soul. Where the flowers could be gathered by her Muse and woven into the poetry of her Being.