Garden is the taste of honey.
Garden is a symphony.
Garden is a painting.
Garden is the wings of butterflies.
Garden is poetry.
Garden is what bursts and blooms at the tips of paintbrushes.
Garden is an honest man earning his living.
Garden is motherhood—
a woman walking hand in hand with me.
Garden is the hive of her breasts.
Garden is the soft kisses
pressed to the necks of trees.
Garden is swallows of small kisses on the neck of the trees.
Garden is her skirt,
inside and out.
Garden is the hummingbirds’ field of heavenly scents,
blossoming on azure zephyrs.
Garden is when my father was alive.
Garden is everyone I’ve ever loved,
or could have.
Garden is where beauty gathers
in the chalices of flowers,
an elation like the sweetest intoxication.
Hummingbirds of childhood flutter,
their memories funnelling into the gullets of flowers,
reborn and repeated in everything.
Garden is water at the summit of its journey—
the most splendid form of moist,
fragrance sprouting from colours.
Garden is an old woman,
reclaiming her beauty,
recognizing her eternal splendour.
Garden is a man falling in love at the end of each branch,
his pain lacerating on the roses,
his bleeding dressing the garden,
staining the apple trees of spring.
