If I can make a landscape for a dream, let it be this place. Some day soon the winter will fall, but this afternoon in this garden the sky is still clear and brazen blue, the wind still rustles in the leaves not yet turned and birds chatter on in deep greenery, insects still flutter in dappled shade. The sun still warms my face, the grass still growing under my feet, a squirrel climbs to the highest waving branches where glossy green ivy leaves entwine, waiting for the year to pass on. I close my eyes, a tranquil moment for the dead and dying, held in trance-like waiting, the sun still calls my eyes to the sky. I don’t want to lose this moment, I don’t want to go indoors, but the chill air rising creeps up my spine, a flying crow caws overhead, the wonder is breaking, broken by a growling plane that cuts the sky in two. Some day soon the winter will fall again, but now, today, this afternoon in this garden, summer still lingers on, and hope is still strong. If I can make a landscape for a dream, let it be this place.