The Gatekeeper

I tiptoe to my garden gate
in the dim early light,
to escape to my seat
near the sheltering lilacs.
I am the gatekeeper.
I've come to hedge out
the blaring headlines of war,
the matter-of-fact voice
delivering every atrocity.
Here I linger, for the flutter
of tiny wings to the bird feeder,
where the song sparrows hang-glide
to the lawn, like toy parachutes,
and meld into the waves of
brown birds scouring seed
in the thick green turf. A
woodpecker's drumming heralds
the red queen's entrance to breakfast,
closely followed by her genteel king.
When I swat the mosquito
humming in my eardrum,
I startle a complacent toad
sitting in the rock garden,
warming his bones in the sun.

I retreat to that garden gate
in my mind, now and then,
and recall the innocence
of lilacs in tucked-away gardens,
where the common sparrow dines
with royalty, valiant knights
escort lovely ladies, where a
reptile may sunbathe unharmed.
The divine heartbeat resonates
in this quiet inner sanctum;
worry evaporates like morning dew,
as I evict the thieves of serenity.
For I am the gatekeepr,
and in this peaceful respite,
mosquito bite is the only threat
of bloodshed to be found.