"So I turn'd to the Garden of Love,

That so many sweet flowers bore."  William Blake, 'The Garden of Love'

 

Smiling through tears, a shape-shifting delight,

She mumbles her prayers, she turns out the light.

Her dreams are protected, by what she believes,

With the rising at dawn, and the turning of leaves.

Artists paint her aura, in deepest periwinkle blue, 

Musicians litter their scores, with minor chords too.

Crying songs, and distant laments, auras of night, 

The scent of patchouli oil, surrounds her, sleeping sprite.

Poets seek her out to explain the sadness of love,

She remains an ambient presence. Above mourning doves

Coo and nightingales sing, but the girl with the flaxen hair

Just twirls her ring, sings to herself, mumbles a prayer,

Hardly believes that she's already there, sitting so quiet, in the garden

Of love, these flowers and bees, are all that she loves.