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The garden seems a perfect place.
This Persian home primeval
is with man's family coeval.
All seen bespeaks a planner's eye.

Designs complex, in layers traced,
each yet more marvelous to find,
belie selection of a random kind.
Such perfection must begin on high.

How is it, then, O, heart of flesh--
the fascination with running water?
With new fire? With ageless trees?
Why is it, then, that always when
I turn skyward, restless and drymouth,
open-eyed yet unseeing in the night,
I hear the rustle of ancient scales?

by Denis Garrison

[Confessio | Soliloquy | Eden]

This poem is Copyright 2002 by Denis Garrison

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