This Secret Garden

The river that exists in my back garden was all but untouched
by the tips of my toes in the middle of summer.
Days and days went by where nothing but beads of sweat
were drawn from the moisture
in the vacant, dusty, long days and endless nights.

Sitting on boulders in the middle of a crystal river,
complaisantly singing about life
and all the sweet nothings it comprises of,
Sweet nothings that mean nothing sweet to anyone else.

The water intrudes the spaces in-between my toes
and washes away the afternoon game of adventure seeker,
pleasure seeker and the earth's own secret keeper.
Everything surrounding me is green and lush and full of life
and mystical wonder and elegant and outstretching arms.

My lyrical recitation of the place was sober and sere.
My words, they do not linger long, they don't linger here,
For they are carried out in song into the auburn sunset
that catches fire through the tangled trees of this secret garden of mine.

I think I've found the place where my mind will willingly take me back
forever with just one desirable wish.
A place where sleep exists without weeping.
A place where the trees are welcoming with their scent of pine.
This place is the secret garden of mine.