I used to imagine him br coming from his house, like Merlin br strolling with important gestures br through the garden br where everything grows so thickly, br where birds sing, little snakes lie br on the boughs, thinking of nothing br but their own good lives, br where petals float upward, br their colors exploding, br and trees open their moist br pages of thunder - br it has happened every summer for years. br br But now I know more br about the great wheel of growth, br and decay, and rebirth, br and know my vision for a falsehood. br Now I see him coming from the house - br I see him on his knees, br cutting away the diseased, the superfluous, br coaxing the new, br know that the hour of fulfillment br is buried in years of patience - br yet willing to labor like that br on the mortal wheel. br br Oh, what good it does the heart br to know it isn’t magic! br Like the human child I am br I rush to imitate - br I watch him as he bends br among the leaves and vines br to hook some weed or other; br I think of him there br raking and trimming, stirring up br those sheets of fire br between the smothering weights of earth, br the wild and shapeless air.