Oh Fuschia Tree
or
This world is ours
I am not the gardener, I am just he who takes the garden walk. I never really look at you, only dimly do I see the statue of branches, covered as you are with your shawl of green and pink. The garden is so lovely.
The path seems a sturdy winding road through a confusion of color, I can see the bench, resting in the shade of the wall.
Suddenly I am overcome by such a perfume that my knees waver and like a flower that has been cut, I lose my ties to the earth, the path is gone.
I am like a man mad for drink, an opium addict, I am lost, I wander and somewhere, I die.
The bench is forgotten, I move towards the shade of the fuschia tree and rest my back against the bole, I gaze at the confusion of pink blossoms and like a thirsty person my body breathes the fragrance of spring.
I am alone here, no crowds enjoying the sunshine and the breeze, no poets writing sonnets to inspire, just me. The garden that I contemplate is mature, I look at the roses and see the strength of age and the undressed lines of pruned growth, long dead. The flower beds are well established, time having chosen what would grow by test.
I am glad to be alone here, surrounded by fuschia.
I will linger here, I can see the path. |
