The garden bridge, a subtle arc
that gathers to its bend
the mossy stones of either bank,
and to the water lends
a stagnant symmetry: the dark
tunnel above, the sky
afloat below. A tranquil park
made upside down, and I,
half over, pause upon the brink
to watch the willow send
its branches heavenward, to drink
the light that never ends.
Now speak the truth. No shallow gloss
will shelter us from moss or earth.
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