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How often have I dreamed of such a place?

How often have I seen those emerald fields,

And in that dream, forgotten that I dreamed,

That I would wake, had woken, and my life

Dissolved into a peaceful deja vu

That cannot be remembered? I can see

The grass, the mossy walls, the maple shade.

I smell the tall, slow, sleeping pines, the sand

Packed soft around the fountains. I can hear

The wind among the treetops. I can feel

The soft brush of soft grass, and the cool glow

Of dew washed dark earth beneath my bare feet.

Yet no name can I summon, nor can say

Why I should cling to memories of these.

But cling I do. If I should ever see

That place in this world or in any next

I will know it, as surely as I know

My father's face, and swiftly wandering

Go in among the gardens, and get lost.

I'll sleep beneath wide, sighing linden boughs

That dye the sunlight like stained glass, and find

Paths carved into the malachite hillsides

Leading from grassy terrace to orchard,

Leading from arcade to dim aspen grove,

Leading from ferny grotto to a bridge

Above the water-lily covered pond.

Upon this hillock, through the broken hedge,

I will see rolling pastures so bright green

They must illuminate in the darkness.

From that serpentine-marbled marble shrine

Between the twisted roots of a camphor

Taller than church steeples, I will follow

The outflow of the ice-cold fountain down

Through waterfalls that nature thought, but he

Who built this garden made, through slippery banks

Covered with sponges of thick moss, until

It reaches the rock pool where stand the long,

Asleep green fingers of the willow trees.

And in an orangery, arches open

To breathe the warm eternal summer breeze,

I will find on the table a paper

That says "This place was perfect. But no more:

We stand in peril. Save us, as you saved

Whole worlds before." No signature. Wary

Will I go out again. The garden now

Seems welcoming not like invitation

But like a trap. The paths have become tracks,

The bamboo fences possible ambush,

And I am painfully aware how much

My bare chest, my blue shorts, my bright red hair

Stand out against the ever-deepening green.

I look at what I pass as if to weigh

It's value as the setting of a duel:

This maze of dark slate stairs, around planters

Of spindly budding maples would do well

If I could keep the high ground, or that bed

Of briars so green that they are almost black

Could keep a foe from moving. By the time

I reach the garden's edge, I am ready.

My breath is slow and unstoppable like

The engines of a rocket. My muscles

Are cool and loose and eager to be used.

My senses are so razor sharp that when

I look out the iron gate into the woods

That wrap around the garden to the east;

Though wild, still tended, still groomed and kept clean;

I see what I must do. And I must laugh.

A sapling apple tree, under a branch

Dropped from one of the rangy oaks is pinned

And bent against the ground. It is alive,

But cannot grow like that. I wonder if

The sudden surety that comes is from

The place itself, or only as one knows

The things you know in dreams, and if there is

Truly a difference. Regardless, I heave

The fallen limb off of the young apple:

It springs back, soon enough. It will not grow

Quite straight, but it will flower, it will fruit.

And its crookedness will in years to come

Make it the more itself. I fetch water

From the small marble font just at the gate

To rinse the mud off of its leaves. The branch

Is lying discarded off to the side

And something tells me that this will not do.

I drag it to a tree with silver bark

And small golden flowers, that I can't name,

And lean it up against the stock. A trip

A little deeper in the woods turns up

A few more fallen branches, which I lean

Around the tree like a stand of muskets.

I gather rough fieldstones from the deep woods

And place them circled close around the roots.

And then I look, considering. It is

Rough, yes, but not unfitting so, and I

Know not what more there is for me to do.

So will I wander back. The gardens have

A look of early morning, and the note

Is different now, now it says but "Thank You."

Then through the orangery will drift a breeze

Suddenly cool and grey amid the green

And smelling of the sea. Then I will know

What wind to follow when I go my way.

Yet will I linger here a little while,

To see the flowers bud, if not to bloom,

To explore more of the deep wooded paths,

To rest me in the emerald colored shade

Not caring yet if following that breeze

Will lead me to awaking, or to death.