Thursday, December 6, 2007

An Old Garden

An Old Garden

I never told others before
about the rosemary-blue door
I found one day ajar. Scarlet
trumpet vine trailed above. I let
myself right in and found flowers
on trellises, in lush bowers -
jasmine, perfume-wafting roses -
being watered by thin hoses
of sun-dappled juniper green.
An ivy tendril crowned me queen.
I put my schoolbooks on the ground,
sat in a chair and looked around.
There was a table set for tea,
white wicker, white lace, laid for three.
Through another blue wood door there
came a round little lady fair.
She promptly sat in a second chair.
Chamomile tea, cookies were served.
Her husband, who sat in the third,
boomed, “Child, we see you every day,
see you lingering on your way,
gazing at all the flowers here.
Once in a while some disappear.”

I blushed, for now and then I’d take
some for a gift or a keepsake -
lilies of the valley, yellow
roses, a crocus in the snow.
“Here’s a cup of tea, a cookie,
we’d like to invite you to see,
whenever you like, our garden,
know you are welcome to come in.”
Soon they sent me, content, away,
sniffing at a large pink bouquet.

On that day they modeled for me
a prototype of how I’d be
when in my yard a child I see
picking an apple from our tree.
I smile, remember, let him be.

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