The landscaper no one remembers intended it

to be an entire world held in place by a tall wooden fence


Each day every season a new flower

would bloom, new grass would sprout, new mold

would appear between the bricks of the pathway

to the kitchen door not far

from the potting shed next to her perennials


That’s how the woman of the house sees it even now,

announces each event with the voice of a girl

who’s just stumbled over love


Once a young man in a war,

her lover sees the reds, yellows and blues as fires,

their coals as rainbows curving into clouds


They sit with their differences every evening,

listening to cooing doves and last of the larks,

watch blossoms redden and sparks turn white


It will always be so