Fruit Trees: A Dream

I am walking through a garden, held between the irregular walls of a building, tall and red-brick and formal, and the garden turns and twists with the building, as if it is a maze, but I am not lost, only adrift in the blossoms of the trees, and the fruit too, impossibly simultaneous, in the smell and the sight of it, and in the realization that I am the gardener.  I approach the trees closely, touch my hands to their bark and their leaves, to the raised beds, shored up with stone walls, where they have been planted, and I begin to see that they have been planted badly, too near the building, too near the retaining walls, too near each other, and they have been pruned badly too, left to grow any which way, so there is disease in them, and the fruit is twisted and rotten, and even still, I know I am the gardener.

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