There is a garden.

I see it through the windows as the night grows,

as the moonlight flows into the garden's silence.

Its flowers are dewy, beautiful as a maiden's,

sparkling with dewdrops and mist like a mystical night.

 

It is beautiful,

mysterious as the enveloping darkness

or the wonders of the heart.

Can you believe it?

 

Neither can I,

as I wander through the orchids,

winding around the roses

to cross a bridge lined with jasmine

and the abundance of primrose,

with rue and lavender filling the air

with a unique fragrance.

 

I take in the wondrous sight,

coriander and honeysuckle hanging from a wall,

the blooming or morning glory and

soft white poppies dot the fresh green grass.

 

Every time though,

the night ends too soon,

passing me by

to retire come morning.

 

It gives itself up to the visitors of day

and some of them,

their curious eyes,

like shy children, stare with awe.

 

I think I would know,

that every night I give up my sleep,

every morning that the sun drives away the moon,

and each day;

I yearn to come back,

to be lured into the mysteriously alluring garden.

 

I want this all

for a chance

to discover the flowers' secrets

and to bathe in the mystery of

the garden.