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There are no words to describe the garden.
There is no way for me, a mere mortal, to define its beauty without restricting it, to allow you to picture something so ethereal without it losing its luster.
Just sitting here, I can picture it all, and though it is nearly impossible, for some reason, I want you to see it too.
So I will place these pitiful words on this paper, write this sad description for those who will never be lucky enough to see, and I will tell you about a place stored in my heart.
I sit in my chair, at my desk, in a dark and enclosed room; and yet I can feel it.
I can feel the cool wind kissing my cheeks and tickling my throat.
I can feel the sun on my back and the top of my head, like so much a King's heavily adorned crown.
I sit here with my eyes closed and yet I can picture it perfectly. Oh, but how to describe it?
The garden is small, in fact, some might describe it as miniscule. But it feels like the biggest place inside my heart; it takes up so much space.
The hedges, overgrown ivy with roses peeking from behind the leaves, surround the perimeter, casting the interior into shadow.
The wind rustles through them, shaking their branches in a soft and soothing melody.
The grass beneath my bare feet is emerald green silk, long and lush. Dew from the night before darkens the already shadow covered blades. As I watch, as I have seen so many times before, the sun peeks over the hedges.
The shadows at first lengthen, and then shrink rapidly, as if excited to show its treasure.
And a treasure it is.
The sun strikes the grass in such a way that the ground seems like a floor of diamonds. The sparkling blades are satin beneath my toes, and I dig them into the ground.
I close my eyes and breath it in, all of it, from the rich moistness of the soil to the spring fresh scent of the ivy and roses. I breathe in the cool shadows and the warm sunlight. And I feel whole. I feel complete.
A multitude of birds dance through the bushes, orchestrating the rise of the sun. A warbling melody fills the air, and I breathe that in, as well.
For a short time the entire garden is illuminated, glowing in its glory. Mist rises off the damp grass in swirling tendrils. The sun heats my skin in such a way that even on the coldest day I can remember the feeling, the golden warmth that gilded the roses.
At noon I move from my place on the lone, cracked stone bench to the large oak at the edge of the garden. Its roots ripple beneath my feet, warping the ground. The gentle oaks shade is a delightful mercy after the heat of the sun. I settle against the trunk, resting my head against the ancient bark.
I breathe in. And you breathe out.