The iron bench warmed by the sun felt good against his back. The willow trees rustled, swaying in the soft summer breeze. The pruning shears sat with the stained gloves next to him.
A task completed. The maze tended.
Her gazebo mocked. Not for the first time, he thought about tearing it down. A gesture wasted. Moments slipping through fingers.
What is real and what is illusion. Comfort from patterns repeated, predictable as misdirected. The for sale sign caught the breeze, squeaked. Perhaps the new owners would enjoy the maze’s irony. Or perhaps they would raze the garden. He shrugged.
Picture linked via Addicted to Purple.