Gold-voiced Orpheus sang that the chalk-faced spirits
of the wind-swept steppes chased the thunder-sired calf
straight into the mirror that shattered out into our world,
scattering seeds that would grow into pomegranates,
and ash trees, and figs, and apples, and roses, and tulips,
and ivy that strangles, and aconite, and pine, and hemp,
and wormwood, and mushrooms, and most precious of all
the gnarled vine from which grows the grapes we crush to make our wine.
Our God is all this and so much more. And so we give thanks to you
Dionysos, and ask you to bless our garden and all that we are growing in it,
whether that is flowers which delight our eyes with their vivid colors,
or potent medicines for the body and soul, or food to fill our hungry bellies
that is both healthy and delicious, or the ingredients for incenses
and offerings for our household divinities, or whatever else you have
seen fit to make grow in our garden, O Father of Life, Much-Flourishing One.