The Garden

A poem

Photo by Lea on Unsplash

The scattered
slate floor
joining beds,
the potted foreign
conifers,
leaves gone
dead to wood,
the puff of robin,
lit with torrid
lambency,
fluffed and
sore important;
the brush
run to seed,
— all of it and
of it all —
laid down
as is and
ever so,
as if of
waters wild
or by some
final hand
and final-fully
gone to ground,
and remembers
times and
instances
and untouched avians
save by wind and
squalling rain,
this show was
scored just so,
even orchestrating
human hand;
it came to be,
was up and
disarrayed and
reconstituted
to receive its you,
me and assorted
others,
and remembers,
remembers,
warm climes
and frangipani
and sweet footfall
of all our yesterdays.