Where the Path Forgets

There is a garden
that exists only
between two breaths of evening.

I arrived there
before the sky decided
what color it would be.

Lavender clouds drifted slowly
like thoughts
no one had finished thinking.

The path curved through tall grass
and then curved again
as though it had forgotten
where it meant to go.

Somewhere water moved—
not quite a river
not quite a lake

just a long hesitation
of silver.

The trees leaned inward
listening

perhaps to the wind
perhaps to something
that had once passed through here
and never entirely left.

I thought I heard footsteps
ahead of me.

Or behind.

Or in the quiet space
between my own.

Fireflies appeared
one at a time

like punctuation
in a sentence

the night
had not yet finished writing.

And I wondered

if I kept walking

whether the garden would end

or simply continue
opening

room after room of sky
and grass
and slow water

until the morning arrived

and found me

still standing

in the middle

of almost.