Late December night br unseasonal, almost balmy br I step into the small Japanese Garden br in the center of three buildings: br this is the locus, the point which br pins brick to its substance br anchoring this place to the world... br br I stand here & breathe night air, br allow darkness to embrace me br secret lover enfolding me br bringing me to a point of stillness br where even held breath could br shatter silence, cause the very stars br to blink out, one-by-one br leaving darkness so total br it must be my own... br br In this numinous state br imagination's so vivid, so complete br I can see a stream running br beneath the small wooden bridge br defining this gentle, reflective space. br br For a moment, I can forget reality’s hard truth: br Bridge covers a storm drain, br its charm accidental, by-product of function br - dispersing rain water, rushing river, br Into pipes - keeping property safe & dry, br br Garden pristine in starlight; br caught in my lover's spell, br I allow practicality br to disperse, water down pipes. br Surrendering to silent darkness, br I hear only the mutable sussuration br of water rushing over smooth stones.