She wanders the parenthetical garden,
each curved stem an invitation to step
away from the trail (remember how the Stoic
said to dwell on the beauty of life, to run
with the stars), and soon she is what some
call lost (Any fool can know, said Einstein,
the point is to understand), and there,
lost in the sound of the bird she doesn’t hear
(Heard melodies are sweet, said Keats,
but those unheard are sweeter), she sits
on the swing of her thoughts (what is it
she is so afraid of) (seek those, said Rumi,
who fan your flame)(how comfortable
can she become with her errors)(false start)
and notices how it is the knots that hold up
the swing (what story is she ignoring?).
This garden, my god, it is beautiful.
She was going somewhere, wasn’t she?