The grit of the garden path,
Sticks to my feet,
As I wind my way through the garden,
Each granule a moment in time,
Some mountainous, and some valleys deep
irresistible to waters flow.
The dappled darting light flits,
shifting my focus,
Now is the autumn, turns her
Gentle glaze inward.
Still a fern fond, uncurls,
its black hairy mass,
a fierce force,
Greets its counterparts,
already grown to green fullness.
The grape vine abundance spent
in resignation red with golden warmth,
it’s green tendrils
ever reaching for the last flush of life,
before the end.
The pot sits idly,
remembering Arabian nights,
and cool courtyards with running water.
Now an empty vessel
Echoing memories across the garden.
—Art Garden Heidelberg Collection