We step through the moon gate and the light
brightens after the dim halls of art. We breathe
deeply; here your silence is reverie,
everywhere else it’s autism.
Lattice motifs lace the courtyard.
Symmetry and pattern, even the shadows
are woven. A grey stone riddled by ancient rains
balances like Buddha beneath two round windows.
It’s as if the gods themselves drew
these garden blueprints: A shorn juniper,
shaped by hand not hurricane, yet windswept
after years of training. We listen.
Water trickles down the miniature cliffs
into the pool, where we wait patiently
for the lazy koi. A sign warns us
against wishing: Please, no coins.