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Along the tracks of Grandma's quaint backyard, her lavender perfume reminded me of my early teenhood,
digging the soil to thresh the roots as I buried seeds through its clayed womb.

 In this late hour, my eyes feel her calm laughter, speaking to each blossom and naming every new bud after me:
 Somehow, I sit on an old bench recalling how we tended ringlets of leaves...a pleasure which grew through seasons until it was my time to water more trees rising higher than I.
 And fragile like shamrock, Grandma bowed low to greet new shoots while her fingers wrinkled and grew thin --hiding her unknown body pain. 

Oh she owned the moon ; nature was her lavish throne.

Gathering a few truant stems, I hear her banter among vines... a melody so bouyant descending
from God knows where on the horizon:
I smile  and sob in reverence at this panoram among the mist and weeds of duskfall.

A pond stretches its loop where ripples curl between my toes; and a festoon of red blooms huddle on its bent slope weaving through the rim of a hill...
 The nimble tap of spring grazes my face as I wiggle my palms to relish this moment draped in pristine streams-- achingly alone-- bearing all 
the glow of Grandma  before an ensemble of birds whisks by.

 Now as a midlifer, I trace back my teenhood  with charmed fondness, knowing this secret garden is now mine to nourish and harness--
her spirit sashaying across the pampas 
with abandon--

until then and until when, I cling to ' now.'

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