The Garden That Remembers

Leaves keep counting the small round suns, the willow lowers her hair. The lion keeps his quiet wings, too calm to call it prayer. An owl in the hanging bough folds night under her eyes. The river loosens its little rings and lets every hoof pass by. In the garden that remembers, nothing has to run. In the hush between the branches, every shadow comes undone. Feathers open their secret maps, fruit bends low with rain. Every beak and mane and claw learns a gentler name. No crown, no cage, no hunter's horn, no bargain made with bone. The horse steps into still water like a promise coming home. In the garden that remembers, nothing has to run. What the wild kept under thunder lays its burden in the sun. Somewhere past the painted branches, teeth still bargain with bone. But here the roots make room for all who come back overgrown. I have been the watcher, I have been the animal heart. I have worn a splendid silence just to keep myself apart. If I lay my weapons down, will the branches know my name? Will the river take the fever out and leave the living flame? Let the owl keep the midnight. Let the horse keep the shore. Let the lion sleep with open wings by the orchard door. In the garden that remembers, nothing has to run. Not the hoof, not the wing, not the wounded one. In the garden that remembers, let the old chase come undone. Every creature finds a doorway where the branches meet the sun. Willow, feather, fruit, and water, moss and mane and morning air. Keep me gentle, keep me gathered, leave me woven there.