Wasting Time in the Strange Garden
In the garden -
the never-ending garden of secrets,
I lose place,
my finger no longer glued
to my last point of memory.
Confusion takes control
as I nearly drown
in the wake of my white haired friend.
He rules over time,
monitoring it closely,
keeping it steady with ticks of his whiskers
and tocks of his twitching tail,
the metronome to a world of wonder.
My steps cover no ground
in the labyrinth from hell
as he leads me to a banquet table
hidden under teapots and pastries
of all shapes, sizes, and colors.
Here, I am a miniature form
finding shade beneath beanstalk-high mushrooms
and resting against blades of grass
taller than ugly skyscrapers.
My bunny friend is frantic,
tardy for something important,
yet my teacup is never empty,
and the pastries are always warm
and permeating with strong, sweet marmalade.
He moves quickly,
sporadically,
the only rhythm bouncing
from each wriggle of his oversized cotton fluff.
I don't know what's coming next
and I can't remember where I came from.
The visions flashing across my eyes
become dancing neon lights
in shapes, letters, and forms
of shapes, letters, and forms
I can recall
from a childhood of which I'm unsure
was mine of that of some privileged child;
a child so fortunate
to be lost in a strange world
where shapes, letters, and forms
are fireflies flashing amongst leaves
as large as a giant's hands.
Steering past the confusion,
I continue with the party,
a celebration of strangeness
and the beauty of being
a freak.
My internal compass
may be altered here by the oddities
of gravity, the proximity of the moon,
and the fact that time is regulated
by an ivory chub of a rabbit
with frantic eyes, a marmalade mustache,
and the ability to always be late
even though he never has anywhere
to go.
August 15, 2010
If you haven't seen Tim Burton's Alice in Wonderland yet, you MUST.
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