In Gibran's Seasonless Garden

You invite me for a walk
in this garden
that is bereft of growth
                           of succulence
                           of senescence
                           of emergence.

You invite me for a walk
in this garden
walled in by dead stones
so that the winds of change
can't touch it.

You invite me for a walk
in this garden
where nothing changes
              nothing is born
              nothing dies
         and the only color is a dull sickly green.

I feel hopeful for the invitation
   but sad for the destination
as I have  walked those paths before
and have seen nothing grow.

You see, I am a growing touch.
                   I am a bright green.
                   I am the rain.
                   I am the sun.
                   I am the colors.
                   I am the winds of change.

You ask me to walk with you
and  to forget who I am.

I know if I walk with you,
the seasonless garden will be laid to waste,
and a green storm with branches and colors,
twisted mighty trunks with mossy planes,
and the interplay of light and shade,
will be, instead.

You ask me to walk with you
muting my songs of growing
               and songs of reaping.

I"ll walk with you, my dear,
because you ask.
But know that you can either
have the verdant pleasure of growing
or the dull pleasure of
                this seasonless garden.