To be certain, there's nothing so alive as the light of sun on skin. The sun is quixotic; romancing my every surface cell while I kneel over dirt, tending plants of its making. If I close my eyes, breathe deep, hear not I can imagine I'm back there again. Pretend this is my paradise. This is not that place - that pebbled piece of land in the center of rushing water. Not ever truly alone here for the cars passing by, the neighbors tending their lawns and homes. Going about daily life unaware the body in the garden isn't where they are at all.

This highly suggestible mind operates hands scooping clumps of dirt, grass and worm - moving pieces of earth until the ground is suitable for its purposes. The mind, however, is using these hands to scoop handfulls of the clear water running over smooth pebbles. Trickling pieces of river over bare toes. A limniad set atop a grouping of rocks, surrounded by trees and sound of earth's veins pumping fluid.

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