This garden,
hidden up the hill
above the oldest gravestones,
has a gate but no fence.

I enter through the gate,
though it means extra steps
around the overgrown perimeter.

This garden
is lush with silver leaves–
no flowers, no buds preparing to open,
    no dried blooms awaiting dead-heading–
no,
only leaf after silver leaf.

And the breeze stirs the silver leaves–
voices–
silvery voices.

I lose myself in this garden.

These voices of silver–
do they speak of what has been
or what shall come?

Or do they simply whisper what is?

Text and image © 2012 by Dirk deVries. All rights reserved.