A roulette of fireflies wakes my skin
Lighting the grove with a velvet touch
As I lay among ferns, my cleansing ritual
When the day blisters this frail essence;
That only the green and orange can sketch
My vulnerable being in wanton rest.
For sublime is the glow in immaculate dusk,
Flavoring the scent of evening-fire air
To guard me from urban life's masks
While I am gone to the pines, the soothing bush
And crunch of acorns snap as I gently pass.
Gathering flowers to grace my neck
A ceremony of solitude fills my rising chest;
The moist wind bearing the crystal dew
Where my secret garden kneels in prayer
And I am gone into night renewed by firefiles' hum.
My Secret Garden Contest, Nette Onclaud