I too have come to the cave; within: strange, half-glimpsed forms and ghostly paradigms of things. Here, nothing warms this lightening moment of the dawn, pale tendrils spreading east. And I, of all who followed Him, by far the least . . . The women take no note of me; I do not recognize the men in white, the gardener, these unfamiliar skies . . . ('The Gardener’s Roses' ?by Michael R. Burch)