You’ve come too late to the garden,
she’s gone, the one you once knew –
as if time could wash fate from these gray stones;
like that day when the rain fell through the world’s mirror.
Maybe the laughter of old women could wake her, –
a forgotten music, a dirge, a speculative song;
but that’s all over now, you’ve come too late
and the mute music saddens us, the walls turned dust.
As if the light could pierce this somber sky,
bring back those feet pattering in the green light –
the children singing and dancing in puddles of clouds
where nets full of fish glisten in the winter sun, leaping.
When you return from that dark country of memory,
where a lemon tree’s shadow falls over her amber life,
call her from her sleep among white flowers – acanthus pearls,
swinging bells; butterflies in the wind below the moon’s diadem.
– Steven Craig Hickman ©2015 Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author is strictly prohibited.