Thumbing the ground. Head-first into the perennial tulip, which blooms and dies before everybody else. And I should've expected it. Distance between the sky and me. Difference between a walk and a crawl.

OR

A version of me that does that. I should've expected that, variously what I'm doing is less walking and more crawling, no matter what it looks like. And that's okay.

Just a part of which might handle it.

OR

This is a roadmarker. A beckoning star... Which is sometimes narrative paste to smooth out the edges. What else is required of a stone garden?

See also: The Ideology of My Father's Garden | Writing Persian | Entering Hookland