Perhaps in some future lifetime

I will become an artist, a pianist,

and a master gardener.

But, for now,

My easel is covered, as if to

Conceal my work in progress

From critical eyes, except

My own. My neighbours

Claim to admire the sounds of

My daily music practice.

They must have no ear for music.

I fill stacks of notebooks with

Ideas, but, none seem

To connect. Only my garden

Seems satisfied, more or less, and

Blesses my effort.

Spirit asks me to trust that

We (He and I) are doing it

Together. A cosmic joke?