There is God in the garden here
among the hens and the trees,
tucked away almost perfectly
so that no one sees

that the Almighty has found a playground
where no one judges His skill
and all that happens to happen
is enfolded in His will.

There’s a sighing in the treetops
as the leaves refuse to sing.
There’s a hammock, uninhabited,
that is turned into a swing.

There is prayers on every corner
and an image of God in stone
as another created creature
stands naked, but not alone.

There are eyes on rocks in this garden
and shells on a piece of string.
There is plenty of God in the garden.
There is God behind every thing.

Sh’ma, the wind repeats it
Sh’ma, sh’ma Yisrael,
it is well with my soul in the garden,
and all is exceedingly well.