Garden is a fragrance remembered,soft grass crawling with the slow snail,birds singing of changing the world while I sat at the computer trying to change it before the cuckoo did.

Garden is a wood tree standing erect as if it was alive and pretending life,hosting evening birds chatting away with slum kids playing street cricket.

Fence is a running shadow of bush, hiding controverting garden lizard that had agreed with your nothing as it vigorously waved vertical head to every polemic from your poetry.

The spider is your world’s wide web that collected season’s rain pearls sparkling for proud sun moments but gone when you returned from an olfactory inspection of jasmines.

Garden is mama reading in a swing from life’s pages that would be ice, a fire’s ashes and a river’s waters, a death’s fragrance recalled .


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