magpie tales
eyeball, breast, lock
what are you?
memories are sorting
images are clearing
the story is forming
a huge wooden door
rough and weathered
entry to a garden
roses spilling over the wall
honeysuckle breathing
apothecary scents
lilies seeking sex
and the music
low tones of bees
high notes of birds
the green carpet
speckled with clover
in a darkened corner
a cool stone bench
babylon, shangrila
for me-
a secret garden
