slips through the garden early,
holds a finger to her lips when she sees the cat,
floats down the stairs to the landing and,
under the Golden Chain Tree, plucks enough
yellow flowers to create a garland for her neck
to go with the pearls found along a garden path long ago.
On a rock by the pond, the muse (I’ll call her Gabriella)
perches, so as to be closer to the goldfish, coos to them,
sings a song from the forties about three little fishies
swimming in the dam.
Barefooted Gabriella skips gleefully along the path,
picks up spent rhododendron petals, tosses them
into the morning-fresh air.
Mist lingers around the mountains.
Next, a poppy crown for her head of auburn hair,
she nods to her friends the arbutus and Douglas firs,
the lilacs with their scent of old stone fences,
gives a small tut-tut when she sees the resident gardener
has left his pair of snipping shears under the mulberry tree
Gabriella want to leave a note of thanks, picks up
a fallen branch to wave it through the air, a magic wand
of words to linger there –
Thank you all who grow here.
Thank you rain and sun.
Thank you morning.
Gabriella weaves her way along the path to rest
in the front garden with a rusted mermaid and a bird bath
where she greets her joyful reflection.
