that frames alone do creak,
that panes of glass alone do ache
If this isn't the garden
then let me turn back,
to the quiet, where things
are thought out.
If this isn't the garden,
if the frames are creaking
because it can't get any darker,
if this isn't The Garden,
where under the apples hungry children sit
and forget the fruit they've tasted,
where a flame can't be seen,
but breath is more dark
and more hopeful are herbs of the night . . .
I know not, Maria, this sickness of mine.
It's my garden that rises above me.