In a skin of lavender and a cloud of bonfire smoke in the hair I listen to the day again lifting through the room in front of my eyes like little specimens of life. Cupped in the hands of my mind’s eye are the dream flowers that Spring grows overnight in this the season of desire. The gardens of my mind are a Pierre Bonnard painting and as I walk into them I warm in the love the colours are feeling for one another. No matter that now my seeds lie quiet in papery packets. No matter that now Winter can still be heard complaining in the other room. No matter that I love most this time before everything. The gardens imagining themselves into being through my bones. No matter that I love most this time before everything. My surrender inevitable to labour, to patience, to knowing the garden will guide me towards her for time is the dream she is dreaming through my bones.
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