Who I really am

It's in The Secret Garden,
That garden dead for years,
That 'Mistress Mary quite contrary'
Learned that she could be happy
Where Colin the sickly
Learned that oblivion isn't the key
And where Dickon the commoner
Learned that he, though ordinary,
Had enormous power.
They needn't be great
They needn't be saints
They were just children
Who needed You.

They were just children
Whose hearts were as hungry
As the withered flowers and twigs and trees
Whose souls were simply dead
As that forgotten garden
Whose hope have always awaited
To be awakened
Just like those bulbs that were buried.
They were just children
Whom You saw
Whom You knew
Whom You found
Whom You loved.

I am Mistress Mary
Quite also like Colin Craven
Much like Dickon too
I am just a child
Deep down within a child.

...Might I have a bit of earth?
Might I have a bit of warmth?
Might I have a bit of magic?
Might I have a bit of You?

Please come hear me
Please come lead me
Please come heal me
Please come just come
In this Secret Garden.

(A poem inspired by Frances Hodgson Burnett's "The Secret Garden", my all-time favorite)

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