The Garden

The Garden, 1995

In a garden sad, she walks along,
sad as she might be;
with nothing but sad thoughts, alone—
before she ran into me.

I found her at the garden’s shore,
knelt over in the grass.
She said she’d like to walk some more,
and by me she went past.

Between tomatoes, cucumbers too,
which her linen fingers touch—
through flowers bright and gleaming blue,
to me she said this much:

“Beside me sit, for I can’t breathe.”
I knelt beside her, cold;
“Please stay with me; please do not leave.”
My hands around her hold.

“I’m going to die,” she said so sad.
Inside me something changed.
“Look with me to the sky, be glad,”
aloud I said, and plain.

In long nights alone I might recall,
her walking, slipping, falling, and,
waiting alone for someone to call,
just so she might understand.

In the dawn I walk beside her,
dodging insects in the dew;
together again events recur,
and we roll about so blue.

Rolling in that golden sand,
outside in the woods.
Still just trying to understand,
what isn’t understood.

With her small feet walking by,
my finger to her lips;
ourselves together may revive,
we touch our fingertips.

Together still inside the glass,
praying it won’t shatter;
together still the world floats past,
soon the glass won’t even matter.

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