In Positano, I duck into a church, where street sounds are hushed and air stifles and Italian women genuflect, loudly kissing their fingertips and offering the gesture up to God. I automatically look up,...
The garden is not grateful to the gardener.
The bud does not cry, 'Open me!'
Darkness untangles threads of light without God's fingers,
filaments of pollen spilling from the reckless void.
The gardener is grateful to the garden.