tiny senses with a tiny fence
around a small part of a complete idea
like the smallest sunbeam to the sun
or the gleam of a ripple on the water's head

 yet the sun thinks not of beams and such
though wet, the water knows it not
without the sun there is no beam
or without water a ripple is not

 the little garden
like a bank of low dark clouds
a solid wall before the sun

 crying shoals of rejected mercy
banks on nothing clearly true
arched above, there are no shallows
what is Real rests in you

 barren ground becomes a garden
love supplants the desert dust
now completes our ancient journey
to the high ridge within us
the little garden
like a bank of low dark clouds
a solid wall before the sun