There is a man in the garden
Who is painting my thoughts
All the guesses
All the yeses
All the won’ts and I will nots

Some cannot see him
If they’re not the dreaming kind
But there he stands, painting
In the garden of my mind

His brush is made of hairs
Of all the people I have met
And with those folks
He makes swooping strokes
So that I don’t forget

In the centre of his brush
Is one of her hairs
As dark and bright
In golden light
As when she left it on my stairs

There it remains
Making coloured stains
On the canvas of my brain
Painting my thoughts
With forget-me-nots
Until I see her again

There is a man in the garden
Who is painting my heart
Combining my love
With his
To produce a work of art

But I will never see
The painting he will make
And so, no more
Of this metaphor
For my sanity’s sake

Now here I stand in my garden
With a paintbrush in my hand
I do not care
If it has her hair
Because I finally understand

Now I’ve finished painting
The landscape of my mind
And hidden it
In a deep, dark pit
That no one will find

There was a man in the garden
Who painted just for me
Is he still there
Or anywhere?
I can no longer see.