In the Garden

She skips about the thorny roses
stomping on their sunlight dabbles.
In this garden of childhood,
the child keeps no memories
and belongs to this
forgetful hive of flower life.
This is her infinite day,
in which the sun,
like a grandfather,
leans on every old wall.
The world recieves this
little invalid quietly, shimmering;
it leans foward
at her every tottering step.
But when no one is watching,
she likes to wander
into the shaded corner of the garden,
moist with dark leaves,
and nightmare visions
of slugs and snails
suckling at the roots of the earth.
Here, a sunken ruin
gurgles in a jungle swamp,
a glistening leviathan
rutts, tangled in vines.
She rushes back,
little face full of anxiety,
to the bouyant path, with its
marigold sea and thorny roses,
that sail over her
like baying red and pink clouds.
The shady corners of the garden
have turned the kind sky yellow,
and sap drips from the thorns.
The path will take her home once more,
but how fun the garden is,
with its frights and discoveries,
and solitude made for children.
And the infinite day is
fraught with such journeys
to see the slugs and the snails.

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