She reached up to the shelf
and took down the book, her eye caught
by the spiraling vine running up its spine.
She cracked the cover, her eyes lit
pupils widening with the dark of clear night,
liking what she saw, taking it in.
There were readers in her family,
many books, but gardeners, none. This book, though,
it drew a garden upon the landscape of her mind
a garden with bold stone courtyards, raised beds
arbours and trellises. This garden
had wild corners for the fey ones,
orderly beds for the lettuces. This garden
had a swing, soft in the shade of a weeping willow,
a tree to climb, rough bark to skin
the knees of the child who hid in her boughs,
knees to run a thumb over, then taste
a lick of metallic blood. This garden
was the dream that bridges books
with earth, that brought the existence
of the librarian’s daughter into the material plane.
October 6, 2008