Secret Garden
Barbara Crooker
Sitting here at a small green table
surrounded by banana trees, palms,
and a big gumbo-limbo; palmettos
and giant ferns filling in the under
story, I think I’ve stumbled back to Eden,
and, like Adam, have had to name the plants:
Red Hot Firecrackers, Fanfare-of-Trumpets,
Shrimp-on-a-Stick, Flaming Torch, Parrots’ Claws,
Stars-in-the-Night-Sky. I’m in a painting
by Henri Rousseau, every frond edged in black,
green Venetian blinds, filtering out the sun. And
then there was evening, and then there was morning,
a sixth day.