IT IS A HIDDEN GARDEN

It is a hidden garden
I’ve often circled, sometimes seen -
With fountains that overflow
And great generosity of green -
But only after slaying a dragon,
With aching feet from miles,
Blood still crusted in my nails.

Each time I visit
I suspect will be the last
And as I breathe the leaf of a fig-tree
Or trace a toe into a splash
I’m already saying goodbye.

There are people I know who live here
I am ashamed when they smile
With tender relief to see me again
They never ask where I’ve been.

And yet I wonder
If they even recognize their delight
The sunny traceries
Of the paradise I begrudge them?