Garden is in the taste of honey.
Garden is a symphony.
Garden is a painting.
Garden is the wing of butterflies.
Garden is poetry.
Garden is what burst and blooms in the ends of paint brushes.
Garden is an honest man making his living.
Garden is motherhood,
a woman walking hand in hand with me.
Garden is the hive of her breasts.
Garden is the swallows of small kisses on the neck of trees.
Garden is her skirt inside and out.
Garden is the hummingbirds’ field of heavenly scents,
blossoming on azures zephyr.
Garden is when my father was alive.
Garden is everyone I’ve ever loved.
or I would have.
Garden is where beauty amasses in the chalices of flower
like the most elating intoxication.
Hummingbirds of childhood flutter
there memory, funnels in to the gullets of flowers
by repeating and rebirthing in everything.
Garden is the water at the summit of its journey,
the most splendid form of moist,
fragrance spouting out of colours.
Garden is an old woman rejuvenating her beauty,
recognizing her everlasting splendour between two frame mirrors.
Garden is a man falling in love in the end of each branch
whose pain lacerates on the roses
whose bleeding, dresses the garden,
and stain the apple trees in springs.
