Her Secret Garden

The sun no more high in the sky,

Bright light has turned to long shadows,

Autumn’s embrace clutches tighter

As a cool wind blows over cracked leaves:

Behind our house and little garden,

A rusty hinged, vine encrusted gate,

Opens onto quiet woods;

Whose melancholy gaze upon my sister’s window

Never fails to elicit the desire to explore.

“I found something magical,” she whispers,

Crouched beside me,

Where I sit amongst overgrown grass,

The tips brushing our knees

Her breath tickles my ear and I try to push her away –

But she gazes at me excitedly, eyes shining, words impatient:

“Come and see!”

A little sister won’t take no for an answer,

And in those days I wouldn’t give it -

Especially on such a day,

As to invite all thoughts of magic to even the most stubborn mind

So I stumble along behind her as she leads me through the trees,

Our shoes crunching the golden leaves, until

She turns and brings a finger to her lips, and

Our footsteps along the path become t i p t o e s,

While I can’t help but be imbibed with the excitement,

The mystery of the secret she knows

When the leaves have grown damp on the forest floor,

And the light that was dappled is no more,

Em slows to a stop and turns to me,

“Look,” – Imploring eyes hoping I’ll see what she can see. 

Carefully she lowers to a crouch, squeezes shut her eyes, extends her hand.

“Come out, come out, little thing,” she coaxes.

Her hand quivers as she holds it in the air,

Breath anxious as it turns to frost.

I wonder, what has she seen in the bushes?

What dewdrops have glistened atop a leaf,

Before falling to the ground,

Mimicking the wink of a pixie as it flies away?

What sudden twitch amongst the flowers,

What scurrying creature,

Has evoked the idea of a shy fairy,

Shrinking back behind the petals to hide?

I wonder what I could see if I had her eyes -

A fairy dancing across her palm?

With wings braced for flight, but hopeful they can stay grounded,

For, like my sister, the little thing is curious

Meanwhile, the forest seems to stand still with her, waiting,

And even in that alcove, I’m sure I believe,

The trees with their thick knotted trunks,

Are young again,

Echoing her innocent longing.  

As am I.