A woman walks slowly around her garden at night, stopping as if she cannot quite take in what she sees. The low moon, lingering clouds, and few stars visible against artificial light make a half-lit world; the garlic border, beans, celery, and snap peas still feel like celebratory things. Yet she seems almost absent from her own senses, only partly called back by the cold dew seeping into her shoes and the chill of night-blooming jasmine against her hand. The trees she has encouraged—apple, plum, pear, cherry—look at her reproachfully, sensing that her heart is slipping toward a life they cannot share. Inside curtained rooms, her children dream of loss, unaware of this need. The mood is quiet, elegiac, and lonely, mixing tenderness with guilt as it holds a moment before separation.
Separation — Summary
Round the circle of her garden she walks, and stops again, taking in, as one absent from her own senses yet unwilling to forgo their gifts,
the half-dimmed light of a low, prepubescent moon, its influence on lingering clouds, some few stars brave enough to compete with
mercury vapor or halogen or tungsten, and taking in also the pungent garlic border, its enclosure of bean vines, celery, snap peas:
celebratory things, even in this half-light, this dew of forgotten hours. Her feet, though well shod, warn her of night, by noting
slow seep of dew round toes and heels. Her hand, brushing wet night-blooming jasmine, shrinks from chill. These, and trees
she has encouraged -- apple, plum, pear, cherry, maple, ash -- seem to her reproachful, watching, as it were, her heart begin to slip
to a life they cannot share. Beyond, in a stillness of curtained rooms, her children, innocent of this need, dream of loss.