The Gardener
Santa Clara, CA 95051
theroot_
These fingers train to play what I hear in my mind's ear. Sometimes they have a mind of their own and play what they want. A surprise. Should it seem surprising that what I write, usually following what I think, is sometimes shuffled by hints that are truly beyond me?
Drifting over hedgerows, a breeze carries tones of a concert from a distant park . . .
. . . as you like it? With a drop of hinge? An aroma with no history. And that scritching creak, slowly from the back of the closet? A monster perhaps.
Look outside – just there – through the small door. A street lamp, forged long ago. It's iron bell on an outstretched arm, kindly bent. The gas light, warm and golden, glints in flurries of snow. A young deer steps shyly out of the shadows.
Then quiet returns. The silent flakes floating down.
No telling where the story ends, but let the seed fly. Perhaps to some other planet. An earthly place kneaded by Twinkie, on her blanket, on her way to dream-time.
So that's enough for now. The Go stones are in place. And there – the breeze is changing . . .
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The Gardener
Santa Clara, CA 95051
theroot_