Postcards from the Other Side of the Table
A pond no larger than your concept
of heaven. The shadowy-orange shapes
A tree so small and sculpted
it's someone's child. And stones.
Always stones near the water. And light,
with all its blinding accusations.
There are too many answers.
None of them completely right.
If there were one I could catch
in my mouth, it would be winter,
the whole garden transcribed in white.
Only the braille of our bodies