So many things live in my garden- not only flowers and bees, although there certainly a lot of those, peppered with the occasional marmit, but ideas and pictures dwell here, too. i like to collect garden things. i find the solitude fascinating.
In the fall, there come the dead, lying about. Cold, lifeless on the white pavement. Scraping along the ground as the wind blows them about. Schrivelled, browned by the sun. And now here you come along, heavy boots, trampling the bodies underfoot. Kicking, screaming for joy, playing with the bodies of the dead. Can't one resting in peace command any respect? Let the fallen leaves alone.
It is here that i spend most of my time. In fact, i am here now- at least a great part of me. i stand here waiting for YOU... and with open arms. The wind blows wildly around me. My heart is growing cold as its beating slows, and i wait. i stiffen. i harden. i am turning to wood- my outstretched arms becoming heavy branches that will weary me; weary me as i become forced to keep them suspended. Yet still i wait! i remember the many times in the forest before when you came to me time and time again and so now i will always wait for you. Why is it this time you are taking so long? The time stretches into eternity as i become cold, hardened, and tired. i wave my leafy, lofty arms in the wind and i tremble with the trees. Waiting, waiting, waiting.
In this garden are people... so many people, it must be the world sitting in here. People sitting on benches. Little paper dolls moving when the wind blows- to-and-fro, to and fro. Sometimes they wave to the pigeons that fly by, or they hold out paper hands hoping to tempt a bird to come to them. Praying that the rain will pass them by. With fake paper smiles and they're all alike and they feel nothing because they are only made of paper. Little paper hearts, so easily torn in two, so easily scotch-taped back together again. Sad to see them rustle their paper sighs. Always the danger that the wind could just blow them away... Away from my garden.
The graphics on this page belong to Elizabeth Mitchell, copyright April 1999, and were created especially for The Keep of The Dreaming. Do not fold, spindle, or mutilate: In other words, do not borrow (re: STEAL) without permission. That's what we call illegal, boys and girls.