She comes to me in this place of peace and solitude, a fish out of water perhaps, or just an accidental tourist searching for beauty. We wander through landscapes filled with magic, and I feel her eyes upon me as we move through corridors of color.
Perhaps she is a kindred spirit lost and found, shy of the surroundings and banked in her thoughts of oceans blue and colored fish that swim silently by. Her world is fluid and moving, a far cry from this garden that took so much work by so many hands. Each stem of green winding its way towards the sky, burdened by the weight of the blooms as they unfold, and yet here she hangs by silently watching as it all transpires around her, here is where she has been planted, so far from her restless sea.
I long to place a shell at her feet. To tell her all I’ve seen of her home, that I too know how it feels to be so far from the known, transported to a foreign land that is so beguiling and beautiful, that my feet have walked upon her homes sandy shores and of the views I became a part of as I swam above the waves while peering down below. The muse of the garden, silently watching and waiting for a sign, swimming in flowers, drowning above dirt.
Perhaps someday she will return, for now so far beyond the sea the siren has no song to sing for me, but perhaps on nights when the moon is full she will remember the words, hear the memory of the waves crashing, and she will sing. Yes, she will sing.