Beauty does not first stand trial but is shaped by it.
I do not want to over-contextualize this poem. Sometimes additional context in this format—sharing a poem via the internet—is helpful. But I want you to transplant this into the soil of your own soul without too much “what does it mean” amending. What I will say is that I share it this week for a reason, as a kind of memorial stone for a particularly trying yet beautiful and formative season in our lives. You can listen to me reading “Trial Gardens” here.
Trial Gardens
We walked through the gardens one June evening
remarking upon the beauty on trial—
clematis, hummingbird trumpet, penstemon,
veronica, delphinium, blanket flower.
Or was it the trial
that made these things beautiful,
that brought forth the blooms and Latin,
names within names within identities?
Was it the suffering of drought and clay soil
that established the roots?
Was it the grieving of autumn’s certainty
that made growth possible?
I feared this was the truth, that beauty
does not first stand trial but is shaped by it,
raises its head to the sun because of it.
I stood on the path by a hedge of tickseed coreopsis
Processing this, a photosynthesis of the soul,
yet still doubting the fruitfulness
and cursing the cruelty of the season,
when you walked up behind me
And wrapped me in your arms.
I did not know how much I needed the embrace
until I felt the skin of your reassurance
and breathed the midsummer blossoms of your hair.
You, there with me, perennially in my heart.
