Similar in height of trees, complete with birds, sunlight and breeze, mist and rain, two parks stood, a public, and a private, wood. And often I have walked in one and found the hidden streams that run with shadows. And of hours I spend with it, I love it like a friend.
But always I go, wondering, by the spiked iron fence that, tight and high, with self-concern, refuses me as though I were an enemy.
I think (but I shall never know) if it would open, could I go within and touch it, would we find something within each other kind?
But it is mystifying, deep, and it has privacy to keep like gold, and seems to like to live withholding what it has to give.