The Garden Wall

The Garden Wall


Bricks of the wall,
so much older than the house;
taken I think from a farm pulled down
when the street was built;
narrow bricks of another century.

Modestly, though laid with panels and parapets,
a wall behind the flowers;
roses and hollyhocks, the silver
pods of lupine, sweet-tasting
phlox, gray
lavender;
unnoticed;
but I discovered
the colors in the wall that woke
when spray from the hose
played on its pocks and warts;

a hazy red, a
grain gold, a mauve
of small shadows, sprung
from the quiet dry brown;
archetype
of the world always a step
beyond the world, that can’t
be looked for, only
as the eye wanders,
found.

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