In my garden,
I water ancient acres of infinity,
love fenced in only by rainy skies
and nocturnal dreamscapes.
A church bell echo
-like a call from Angels
keeps me awake from afar
when I’m so weary of walking
over the bridge of lights
with my shadow alone
and the wind in my heart.
In my garden,
I treasure the air of a remote winter,
remembrances, reflections of fall,
the majesty of silence,
the unpredictable glides
of a blue butterfly.
Then the sacred sound of rain
envelopes all,
blurring joy and clouds
across translucent hills of time.
And when I gaze at my face,
I count every single wrinkle
as bleeding soldiers in a battlefield
poem & photography by Marco Pignataro
