In the garden rags and broken bits, trailing paper ribbons, shards and excrement, weave a picture, a scene a thumb reel of protected vision. The garden grows though abandoned by light and conscious thought. Tangles give way to magical gates. Imaginary flowers bloom, twist absurd mangling shapes, evoke scents unknowable in common categories. Once the garden was ripe and lush, fed legions, earned prizes in the canons of great literature. If other gardens vied in performance, it was for the grander glory of gardenhood. Abundance Lovers trysting Children’s play Old philosophers walking, speaking deliberately, deeply, breathing in heaven. A garden of substance, tradition and grace where sore of heart might find tender comfort, growing wild in sweet evening breeze, a calming call to prayer, mending meditation on the ways of Earth and sky and rain. Walking the garden, old, papery, withered of breath, dreaming yesterdays, tomorrows, screaming silently a hope too desperate to speak for vibrant new seeds to take root.