Tim Burroughs

The Garden

for Charles Thompson

the garden waits in silence

opening its gates with a welcoming creak its leaves rustle with anticipation its grass receptive to touch like a waiting lover its shadows lie in slumber heavy beneath sturdy bows its flowers open their petals to welcome an inquisitive nose or bee its conversation is the susurration of myriad leaves an occasional phrase of bird song dying to tell the tales of coming autumn its smell damp earth fecund like the arm of a dozing giant its promise the peace of slumber under leaves motionless like the land

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