This is an illustration created for a narrative poem (below) that I wrote, reflecting on childhood, memories of home, time spent, and time lost. 

Childhood is sometimes spent in the garden.  Spent taking the old key off the nail and going out to the old gate.  The wall there, green and mossy, and the archway creeping with ivy.  The cast iron lock was chipping, and the brick path had grass growing in between—but it was your best place to be.  The old bird’s nest in the framework was empty, except for the walnuts that were pretending to be eggs.  And you were happy here, because it was built for you—because imagination was loved here. When they built it, the wall and the garden gate, you felt just like it was in that old book and film.  And you were glad because you were Mary, and this was your England.  But of everything to keep secret in a garden, you held on to the tulip bulbs.

And so you were happy with twigs in your hair and tulip bulbs in your pocket.  And with your hands in flowerpots and your feet in the dirt.  When you grew tired, or when it rained on and on (like it always seems to on Tuesday afternoons), you spent it swinging away on an old porch swing.  The creaking, that sounded like music, lulled away, while the rain made the rosebushes warm, wet, and sweet.  And while you swayed, you thought and you dreamt.  And the books that were old, but loved, came outside of your mind.  The things that they taught you were then present, and you thought and saw, folding each new idea away like your green autumn sweater—all laid out in lines on yellow paper.  Then you tucked it way, in the drawer where all of the good things are kept.  Next to the tulip bulb packets, rocks found in the river, or beads of exceptional color, you laid it out carefully for later.  This way you knew exactly where it was for next time. When the rain stopped again, childhood was spent in the homes made out among the trees.  Homes found by pioneering into the thicket, taking books, paper and crayons, and planning to live there for, what was believed to be years, but turned out to be hours.  And here you planted some more bulbs, getting more twigs in your hair, and dirt on your feet.  When you were done, you seemed satisfied.  Happy for the gloves and the spade in the basket, and that the dog that followed you everywhere, that was waiting somewhere nearby.  You would go about the rest of the day, still waiting on flowers to grow, only to forget and move on.  You would get distracted by anything that would offer distraction, because it was okay to be curious about everything.  And you would move off in new directions, with new distractions and curiosities.  Someday, you might wonder why you didn’t see these tulips grow, or why you opened that drawer less and less, but on a rainy Tuesday afternoon, you didn’t have to think that far ahead.  However, when childhood is spent, it is spent.  And the twigs will have fallen out of your hair.  And the tulips will have bloomed open and then be gone.

And eventually the gate closes to the garden.