garden of the mind

I have lingered here, long
circling the garden, taking solace
in the jasmine, fennel, and feverfew.
The love apples are ripening

under the mandrake leaves, their scent
heavy in the gathering dusk. As always
I am drawn down the path lined

with lamb's ear, to the center where a
pool crowned in silver quince lies.
And—as always—I avert my gaze,
circle further out, waiting.

I do not dip my fingers in the
quivering water; I do not know
this pool, its breath or depth. 

In my mind there is a stone bench
with a view of a river and a small
window: do you remember?

When you led me toward the river
I saw it with your eyes, glimmering.
I've returned many times, touched, tasted,
rested, comforted; I've worn a path

in the green, a circle of longing repeated
until I no longer recall its source. Until
yesterday, when suddenly from under

the trees the ominous emptiness
hummed so loudly. I started running
over lamb's ear, each wooly leaf distinct
and soft underfoot, toward the silver

moon of the pool. It was much larger
than I expected, spreading out: a lake hidden
under the leaves. I flung myself

into the water, your arms spread wide.
It was so simple: there was no way
to remember where I began.