As I walked past the garden,
a scent had grown therein,
gliding over plant and earth
and said, “I beg your pardon.”
The sweetest scent so aromatic,
turned my head to see,
the flowers lifting up their heads,
and struck so automatic.
In their garden hidden,
so many different kinds,
whose scents arise to float
on air as they have often ridden.
WRITE TIME AND AGAIN 