See how the gate beckons. I peer over its weathered framework – see the winding pathway bathed in shadows and I must explore.
It leads me to the garden. A garden born in fairyland, I think – so miniature, yet large as life. A bench beside a birdbath speaks to me; its yawning emptiness implores – come sit with me and look upon the beauty all around. And so, I sit.
Look up, look up – those trees, they talk to me. See how they flutter their dark green leaves. I smile and lift my arm to pluck a leaf or two.
How strange, yet so becoming. Stillness lingers in this pretty place defying the unrelenting roar of racing traffic, yet when a siren stabs the air – a shrill and shrieking sound – it shrinks the splendor that surrounds me – cover your ears, cover your ears.
This crate of color holds me captive, warms me with its reds and oranges, soothes me with its calming whites and pale pink blooms. Close by the purple stems of lavender beckon – open the gate to memory. I bend to rub a bloom between my fingers, inhale its pungent perfume and remember.
See the busy bees going about their business. Thoughts of honey fill my head. I taste the sweetness, think about the pleasure bees provide.
As sunshine slides across my shoulders I glance towards a patch of grass beyond, craving the coolness of its shadowy sanctuary, while wanting to linger longer in a world of warmth.
Time is forever within this garden refuge. Now time demands I leave. I close the gate behind me then step into my world.
– Ursula Forrestal
