The Hanging Gardens

Sat there in that garden, as a poet wrote,
at the cool of day when God to mortal spoke.

What would they hear, the mortal sat, as words
the lord conveyed, amid the garden's greenery,
midday heat allayed.

Would they know whence words had come, would they
mark the source, or would they idle in the cool,
watching insects chart their course.

I know not what they'd hear, as God himself would speak.
Save a garden’s soundings, of leafy blow and wooden creak.

Perhaps that's all there would be heard, to they and I both.
For gardens are such places where words inhere within
the growth.