The faded garden
was true
like the silence
of the willow strands
and the path toward
a living tunnel made
by creatures that shriek
in the gloom.I sank my hands
into the soil when
not much was left
of the afternoon
apart from highlights
that came from somewhere
other than the sun.I saw pink, blue
and cream enamel waiting
for our craft
of the night sky.Relief rose off me
into a smur
that clung.Wind, rain
and I was back inside
at my desk, notes,
lines and images taken
from the time
of the corn moon
when I saved,
prepared
and stacked
hope high.