The Silence In the Garden

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.