In my grandparent’s summer place

there was a garden which began with grand palms.

It began with grand palms,

and progressed to pines,

which left their soft needles on the path,

and led us all the way to the end –

bushes of pink oleanders,

and an expansive field of grape vines.

It was a garden which was both tamed and wild.

And we were always rewarded,

before we turned back to go home,

with the taste of hidden blackberries

whose location

the bees gave away.

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