Her fingers were soft and incriminating, delicate and exacting. They marked lines in dust--I could swear she painted--between old, emptied wine bottles and closed books. I could read her palm for days, without knowing a thing. It is the way of vision to stare down the moon and emerge none-the-wiser, and prick the finger-pad to find a universe inside, unwillingly. I would share the world inside my world inside my head.
I think her garden favors purples and orange-of-color. I think they line an exposed fire ring of meticulous old granite stone piled a foot high and overflowing with a quartz lip. I think her garden fulfills seasons of her life and not the year; places of seclusion in some areas, willow-and-tuliptree winnowing walls outlining lily-swathed streams; places of great openness in others, fields of lilac and lavender and a cooling breeze beneath endless sky; places of thought, where a single great oak gnarls around beaten footpaths and pumpkins cradled in yarrow and bamboo. I think her garden favors nature more than most, roots thick and bulbs planted, rows perfectly circular, perfectly straight. No pavement; pine needles lay the way.
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