Lying in the garden in the sun,
I realize every garden, no matter the latitude or longitude,
Is home to a wandering soul.
And I think it would be maybe the nicest thing on Earth
If time would just pause for a century or two
So I could lie here and watch the tiny fly circumnavigate my page
And the aerodynamically challenged bumblebee poking his nose

where it doesn't belong
And the tall skinny flowers I'll never learn to name

rise around me like a fortress
As sharp sweet soft sour smells drift like lazy clouds towards me and

away from the flowers and dirt and sun
Because
My heart hurts at the beauty of a garden
And
I wouldn't so much mind sinking away to become a part of the dirt and

grass so others could use me as a walkway to join in my

paganistic adoration of a garden
So
Maybe it would be a nicer thing,
The nicest thing in the world
If the hundred fragile flowers could multiply and grow
Until they trussed me up and covered me all 'round
In fact, I think if I have to, as appears inevitable, die,
I'd like nothing more
Than to drown in flowers.