There was a garden and in the garden was a woman and she stood there in the dreamy garden and beyond the garden was nothing, everything cloaked by mist and there was silence, a beautiful silence.
She was at a distance, but she was close and you reached your hand to touch her face and you could not touch, but instead became one with her, and you said nothing, but she knew everything. And she smiled.
Her face was wide and her eyes were bright and her hair like black cotton. She did not turn toward you, only her face. And she understood you.
Her gown was white and it shimmered in the haze and in her hands she held flowers, red, but blue, they changed but did not. In the garden were only hip-high hedges, dark green, squared, a maze. Taupe earth solid beneath your feet.
There were no flowers, save one. She was the flower.