In Smith-Gilbert Garden

The mulberry fell to its knees; in Smith-Gilbert Garden, it prays, near the moss-stone steps; and I look on, in curiosity. It was an oddity, but I learned of its plight. In sorrow, we make it right, a great fall onto infrangible ground. Like a bonsai tree, twisted. Listed, like a ship at storm, but sailors will never use nets, to cast, for silent butterflies; In July, they gather. Hereby is Summer magic, buzzing bees, buckeyes, swallowtails and painted ladies (sailors swear by them). Yes, all the prayers needed. Unimpeded, the mulberry fell, whilst fluttering wings that disappear in season’s cold, bring merriness, there’s little hope for thee. Still, we visit the treasure that bows, climb the steps, for a further glimpse. This garden is where I stroll among the butterflied tree.