It was once a large walled garden.
The mansion is long gone, but the estate is a preserve
gone to wild. Inside broken pieces of cement
wrapped in vines and weeds litter the ground,
saplings have become trees.
Upon entering the traveler will suddenly come across
painted sketches on a gray surface that reveal their silence,
as if part of an imperfectly preserved language,
shapes and color that whisper to you from the shadows,
but without the promise of meaning.
Maybe they are like the human remains at Clovis,
the impressions preserved at White Sands, pictographs,
or the dreams preserved in the dark of Lascaux—
footsteps waiting for the promise to return.
I make a note and look for the right light to take a picture
so I can show it to you. My being here the only clue.
Garden City Park