Somewhere, there is a garden,
of what I suppose is the regular sort.
It hides between stumbling walls,
a conflation of control
and chaos, each fall of blossom a barely contained exclamation
Somewhere, there is a path,
winding from a door that opens with a kick,
timbers warped from the seasonal shift of warm to cool, dry to damp,
there and back again.
Leave your shoes, your fears,
regrets, memories, leave them by the door
once again stuck fast.
The grass is cool and soft.
The sun is slanted and golden,
filtered through a ceiling of reaching leaves
Somewhere there is a lover, waiting
arms outstretched like branches toward the sky
fingertips of petal and willow
honeysuckle lips
like a late summer moon.
Notes: Locus Amoenus refers to a beautiful place, usually cultivated, a fenced in bit of the wild. As Chaucer writes:
And when, in the summer, he wanted to pay
his wife he debt, he and May would
go there, no one except those two;
and things that were not done in bed,
he successfully performed in the garden.
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