Another secret garden floats into awareness.
The book was on the floor of the cottage
Under a chair. The cafe by the same name
Sat under a cedar and oaks in the heart
Of prosperity searching for transcendence.
Are you tired of this existence, these
Conditions, yet? The pleasantest places
Can break your spine. The pleasantest
Moments card catastrophe like wool.
The reason the garden was secret, was
Locked, was overgrown, was a death.
Death’s long, two-pointed ladder points
Toward emptiness still, and who does not
Fall off still has to climb down to where all
The ladders start. I want! I want! Lean a ladder
On the moon, but once you have escaped
That far, then what? The moon’s not Lucian’s
Nor Verne’s nor Méliès’ but Armstrong’s.
And the real secret of the garden? There
Had to have been, somewhere once,
The momentary intersection when the last
Population, the last village ancestral to all
Of us, engaged with the first stories of origins.
But even that was not the Garden. The real,
Walled in, locked, and unknown thought was
That there could be something else at all,
That it was possible the world was magical,
When the only magic was the ability to think
Of a magic in a world that abjured magic.
See, I think this world is dreaming us,
Our gardens and our ladders, because it wants
To escape itself, because it is longing
To evolve into a world for something else.
Up in the slopes around the shops, the various
Retreats and seminar sites still collect
Material resources, but as they sit, embrace,
And pray, the wanting never goes away.
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