The speaker looks back to a time "before the separations," when the world was a garden that grew by itself and every flower was awake. Nothing had to be tended or sorted. Everything simply lived, and everything seemed alert and present.
That state hasn't vanished completely, the poem says. "There are places, still." Two people, Almira and Evelyn, are named as ones who know or knew these places, though the poem doesn't tell us who they are, so we can only guess they are people with a special kind of attention. The final lines zoom in closely: silver petals, grains of pollen, veins pulsing in feathered leaves. Seeing this takes patience, and "very few" can do it.
The mood is quiet, reverent, and a little wistful. There's loss in the opening, but also hope in the idea that this wholeness can still be glimpsed by those who look carefully.