A garden pruned of fright

“A garden pruned of fright If a color could bring you back to these streets for thousands of days with their nights, Or fill today, with your voice, my Sunday soul, where your absence names me. If holding on with my hands, like roots, so as not to forget your laughter is no longer enough, I would tell you that I paint flowers that embellish oblivion and thus have my garden pruned of fright.”