This afternoon the sun played games with the leaves in my garden. I lay in my old hammock from Costa Rica, the thick cords leaving imprints on my lower legs. Overhead I could smell jasmine, growing up a lattice that shades the hammock. Behind me was a wall of mostly ruined brick, thick with moss and small mushrooms. A toad used to reside in one of the hollows from an eroded brick, but he’s not at home right now. Out in front, if I leaned upward, I’d be able to see the pond, the old oak with spanish moss, and an iron bench. But if I lean upward I might lose the place in my book, and I can’t have that.
I love the garden of my mind. It restores my hope. Still waters, indeed.