An Unfinished Garden An unkempt garden clad in heavy vines grows old, the scent clings less to light; each crevice moves upon the sun as bright and storm-blown who chooses; only silent wading blooms aglow, his fingers grasp at every streak, replace winks, it streams softly — a reminiscence for what once adorned, you trembled carved with esteem — a garden where leaves drift down at dusk, breath rest in light, emerald-green.

• Mina Loy