The Garden – a poem

Do you remember
when we were small
and the garden seemed
as though
it went on forever
in all directions?

My fingers itch
to feel the earth
where surely
scars left by our pounding feet
one full childhood deep
must still be there
all these childhoods later.

If I made friends
with butterflies again,
perhaps the orange blossom
and the sap
would smell
just like they used to
on the breeze.

I wonder if
our trees
are lonely now
or do their branches reach
for someone else
to stop and climb them
like we always did.

Do the plums still grow
as plump and gold
as harvest moons?
And do they taste delicious
like the times
we had to fight
the hornets
for the right
to eat the sweetest fruit?

Copyright David Bastiani 2015

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About davidbastiani

I write words and sometimes they end up in the right order. I am the creator of Milo Peretti - Rome's newest private detective - and I'm currently working on my debut novel, The Colour of Weeping. I also write poetry. Sometimes I might let people read it. View all posts by davidbastiani

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