Nothing grows here in the courtyard, not anymore.
Once there were roses in every bed,
impossibly always in full, unguarded flower.
Once there was always perfume, always opening.
It is not hard to remember the peonies, the parsley,
the surprising upstarts of basil, the hanging baskets
with long sweeping tendrils of bloom.
Once there were minstrels who never stopped singing.
The air always wore a silken song.
And now it is gone.
I do not know why I have come here again,
I who once planted these gardens, I who once
played the lute. I thought I had left them for good.
I’m surprised there are not even weeds here. Nothing
in the cracks of the sandstone steps.
Nothing in the empty beds.
It was not exactly a wrong turn
that brought me here, more of a wandering.
It was not really curiosity, more coincidence.
But isn’t it strange? Not even bindweed? Not lamb’s quarters?
Not even a blade of cheat grass?
The fountain in the center has not crumbled,
though no water flows in it. All the bricks
in the archways are still intact.
There is a gate. It always used to be locked,
but now it swings open at the slightest push.
It is innocent. I was the one who had locked it.
I knew what it was for.
If I’d known I were coming, would I have brought
some kind of offering? A poem, perhaps, or
tea leaves? Some flowers to scatter? Some seeds?
My hands flutter empty. They are unembarrassed
by their lack. There are no sacrifices to be made.
Once there were birds making play out of sky.
There is no sadness in remembering this.
I walk the paths. The way is still worn.
My feet know where to go. There is nothing
to bring back, nothing hidden in the walls.
Perhaps this is what I came for.
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