|Jul/Aug 2004 Poetry Special Feature|
Doņa Isabel's magic garden:
oregano beds divided by perfect paths,
straight lines drawn by an imaginary eraser,
nocturnal stage for some feral cat's escapade
memories of childhood I still smell.
The chap in the market wraps up the herbs,
unaware of the trigger he has pulled.
His Chinese tongue is so remote
from Doņa Isabel's Spanish chants,
I can still hear her laugh.