by Christopher R. J. Worth
Summer garden, warm breeze
Still cool shadows, chest moist
with dew, lay foundering into
the unexplored forest of the mind.
Sounds from thicket
large brown hare
Thoughts to the neatly boxed garden,
And question of rabbit’s reality:
What if this box, this world, is all that will ever be known?
I would rather have been a bird,
Able to move through worlds
To fly by the whims of the wind…
The Gardner’s hands gently scoop the little gray bird.
And it is laid to rest inside the garden’s gate.