Poem of the Moment

Reynolda Gardens
By Ann Lauterbach

For some time we thought it possible to wander,
to let our grip on the inevitable
loosen, so that we could
stroll round to a new perspective:
this formal garden open to the public.
Standing just above on the slope
it looks like madness, an invitation
to impossible choices and unbearable nearness.
Yellow, pale pink, white, scarlet,
each an aspect of itself,
each named, each immune to mimic
although the scent is of a lucid, indelible type.

A calm had come into focus,
a real but frail version of what was wanted--
not defined, framing no image--
but imagined nevertheless like the end of a sentence.
We had reached the point of arrival
when loss drops off
in a generous show of moments
for which there is no recovery.
We walked through unaware of surprise: we were it.
It had the effect of an embrace
reflected in huge, locked window facing the gardens.