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This morning is perfect silence
And all the world is a garden.
The greying wooden bench upon which
I sit is still slightly damp from last
Night's rain, but was mostly
Sheltered by the brick arches of the
Museum's facade behind me.
A grove of giant ferns dances to a 
Silent tune of the wind,
Rustling leaves.
Statues pose around me,
Like me, they do not move and no one
Notices when they do.
Green iron lamp posts guard the
Empty garden, waiting for darkness
To engulf the garden.
Squirrels run across the grass and moss
Searching for fallen acorns from
The oak trees towering above them
Above me
Above the lamp posts
Above the brick buildings
Who wall this bower of the
Silent garden.
In the silent garden there is no
Need for sound,
It is a monastery
Only the sweet and ancient chanting of
The earth and spirits and demons and gods
Is heard
If you silence your mind and listen to the
Silence of this ancient song.
Three cried of a hawk spinning in the sky
The rustling of leaves
The clicking of squirrels mouths
The creak of trees dancing in the
Tuneless wind.
The dances in the dirt of ferns and stone 
Statues.
The distant sirens leaking into the silence
Like rainwater from a full bucket.
Grey clouds shroud and soften the
Silent garden.
The greying wooden bench
Is still damp from last night's rain
And I smell the scent of rain
On moss and ferns
Warning me that I must soon leave this bench
And return to the world of men
The world of sound
The world of warmth
The world of light
The world without rain
The world without dancing ferns
World without green iron lamp posts
Without silences
Oak trees
Rustling squirrels
Stone statues
I must leave the garden
But one can always
Come back to the garden.

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