Labyrinth

Walking out of a building toward the parking garage, a thought
comes into my head. I hold it, a fully formed sentence, one with
an intriguing subject, a convincing sound. But I run into someone
I know who wants to talk about the difference between a maze
and a labyrinth, or rather, about how he isn't convinced that only
the labyrinth has one entrance and exit—for what is a garden if not
an opportunity to explore forking paths? One to the cherry, one
to the apple tree, one to the herb garden and the blasted yew. 
Birds of paradise peer out of the hedges like misplaced botanical
specimens. Everything else is boxwood, ivy, or holly. But in the  
elaborate one-way-in-and-one-way-out construction, according 
to myth, a monster waits for someone to come and knit him a warm 
red sweater, to stay the winter months so they can drink hot toddies 
and play Cards Against Humanity or The Worst Case Scenario. I forget
what I was thinking about, and cannot find a thread back to it. Some-
thing about a heart, a hearth, a central space. 

A chamber hidden in plain sight after the noise in the foliage quiets.