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