The garden seems a perfect place.
This Persian home primeval
is with man’s family coeval.
All seen bespeaks a planner’s eye.
Designs complex, in layers traced,
each yet more marvelous to find,
belie selection of a random kind.
Such perfection must begin on high.
How is it, then, O, heart of flesh –
the fascination with running water?
With new fire? With ageless trees?
Why is it, then, that always when
I turn skyward, restless and drymouth,
open-eyed yet unseeing in the night,
I hear the rustle of ancient scales?
Posted on Magnapoets – June 2006