When we passed through the garden
we bent our heads and asked
permission of the dew, the low-
hanging fronds of willow,
water in the well still warm,
one layer more from the day's
chrysalis of heat. We knew
they were there though we never
saw them—those presences
who made our breath curl
in frosty air, our hair ripple
like a small wave crossing
the blue-green canopy above.
It was here we learned the first
lessons about trust and fear,
how shadows are made, how
there is dark so the fragrance
of night-blooming flowers
can find their way to us.
