The Raft

My new garden has stepping stones

Of a flagstone called Palomino

They are all a grey-blue color

But to get to them you must cross a bed of small white stones.

I picked them for the crunching sound they make underfoot.  I take

Small steps and slow down for the pleasure of the sound.

My son visits to see the new garden for the first time.

He steps from the house barefoot, a glass of beer in his hand.

He follows me as I describe the lavender and sage varieties,

My plans for bareroot roses in the winter.

He sprints by me with small yelps

To the warm safety of the flagstone.

He looks surprised that I didn’t warn him.

I am equally surprised that I designed a garden that repels bare feet,

That the garden is just for me.

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