A quiet place at night, a warm bench, a wall, light from a distant moon. A silent beauty that takes love to see, beauty lost in the ruins, neglected. Gravel in the grass. Each step has its sound. The color cannot be met yet I step and silently touch only to withdraw. A spider that cannot be caught rustles off. Birds don’t nest in the now dusty leaves. Delicate rich red flowers that crumble with my touch in a small verdant place below the embroidery of blue tile mosaic design on the garden wall. That, is my altar, that, is my cross. As I walked away from here once, every leaf I saw was poison oak, and I sang a song too sad for tears.