Eden
Imagine a garden in late spring
in which the sun plays across
the purple allium and columbine.
Picture how the sky might be
reflected on a mirror of rain water
collected in a metal pail that someone
left out earlier during a passing storm.
If you close your eyes you might
become suddenly aware
of sparrows and finches or
the upward pitch of the breeze.
You might make note of the air,
the traces of hyacinth, lavender,
honeysuckle and sweet basil.
And I suppose we must forgive
ourselves if we pause to sit
upon a weathered bench
beside a shaded section of the path
and consider the poetry of the world
that would be the world without us:
the quiet biology of the external,
the fact that there are places
that we ache for but repeatedly leave.
We write our gardens like a poem,
a skirting at the edges of sensual
pleasure, a grasping for what is
better than ourselves and so
is also uninhabitable. After all,
we leave ourselves the pail and bench,
and the shaded pathway out.
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