by train, over the hills to the west, i know a secret place. a winter garden where a flower blooms, stuck in time and space. i faced fares, and cars, and tickets, and weather to see if it was still there.

there is something with me in my pack. i have brought it for the flower. i do not know if i am giving something new, or giving something back.

the rains start to fall and i pull up a chair. i see an old stone ballerina that someone put there.