Second Person
Orange tea in reusable cups and aged dedications of people now lost, are placed carefully on old metal tables and seats donated from the victorian estate a mile up the road. Lavender flowers bloom above with the beginning of spring, making you feel delicate just like the blossoms that hung from the branches of the ancient Jacaranda tree. You sit on the grass, lily plants lining the rippling pond behind you, the scent of roses involuntarily tilts your head up to smell the fragrance more clearly, sun shines through the gaps in the tree leaves hitting your face as you sit there in the cool shade on a smoking day. No one can explain the fullness of what was the garden in the middle of the city, concrete paths winding and turning as if they were rivers, plants hanging over the edge of what was supposed to keep them tamed, the caretakers taking pity and letting it roam along the brick wall where is usually rested. If someone was to sit where you sat, in the shade with speckles of sunlight dancing across your face and around your feet, they would not be able to fully appreciate what you can see now. Above is an intricate design, created by natures mind of insanity, unable to see the picture until you look at it from its [natures] perspective. The garden looks almost like it should belong to a story book, containing mysteries and nesting peacocks. Birds sing into the slight breeze to let you know that this day is good, incapable of drooping to a sad face. You smile in the peace of the day.
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