This is the garden: colours come and go, frail azures fluttering from night’s outer wing strong
Silent greens silently lingering, absolute lights like baths of golden snow.
This is the garden: pursed lips do blow upon, cool flutes within wide glooms, and sing (of harps celestial to the quivering string), invisible faces hauntingly and slow.
This is the garden. Time shall surely reap and on Death’s blade lie many a flower curled, in other lands where other songs be sung;
Yet stand they here enraptured, as among the slow deep trees perpetual of sleep some silver-fingered fountain steals the world. e.e. cummings
We have been getting bad storms off and on this summer and some days we get the clouds but no rain…last night it poured again.. this morning we woke up to grey skies and everything is sodden..
Echinacea bow their heads but weather the rain every time…this is the garden…Toronto, Ontario, Canada…
Gouache and Setasilk on Arches HP Paper