She paints a garden,
In which she doesn’t depict rose bushes,
But the mountains behind it,
Bird sounds and windowless attics.
She paints with so much words
The tongue cannot find.
She paints her arm-wrestlings
With trees, specific movements.
The same gesture over and over again,
Applying the paint,
The garden doesn’t look like a garden…
But what then?
Medici said to Michelangelo,
“That sculpture doesn’t look like me.”
“Listen, you’ll be soon dead,
But this will be
For thousands years or more.
So, that’s what you look like!”
That’s what her garden is.