A Gate Opens Before Me

A gate opens before me. The weeping willow stands in its corner, gazing down upon the garden. Its beauty coaxes me into forgetting the sorrow of the descending evening. A white rabbit bounds across the path and, for a fleeting moment, disappears behind the pink begonia overflowing its sculpted pot. My attention lingers on the colors the sun paints with its twilight. Crickets play the finely tuned violins of their legs. The ripples of my thoughts no longer roar as they once did. And the lemon tree, like a Greek goddess with dozens of breasts pointing earthward, perhaps one of them will quench my thirst. Terracotta is the wordless color of the walls. Perhaps there are things too delicate to describe. Yet the green shutters, darker than the leaves in the flower box, defy them. Though they stand wide open, I cannot see through the window — only the fragment of sky reflected within its frame. A lantern casts its light upon the statues, and its glow dances around the pool. White parasols lean over me, yet I have no need of the shade they wish to offer. False idols are the privilege and leisure of youthful civilizations. And we are no longer young. A chandelier and flowing curtains in the gazebo invite me to welcome wine lovers into the garden. For if there were no beauty, no wine, and no good company, how else could the thunder of cannons, the colors of war, and the darkness of hatred beyond the gate that led me here ever be forgotten?