My midnight garden

On certain nights of the year, if I enter the walled garden not by the main entrance, but by a low door in the far wall, concealed so as not to be visible to passersby, I find something other, a place of temporary enchantment, where is-ness is no longer singular but multifarious: flowers smile, and are mute elves in ekstasis, with patterns that are insect forms seeking nectar. Banana-moustachioed Santa Claus dogs grin beneath watchful benign single eyes, all the while the boomerangs holding sway.

Words courtesy of a particularly extensive mojito, the first of the season.