A Walk in the Botanical Garden

By Efi Kalogeraki


It’s almost May, and almost spring.

I find myself attracted 

to this small botanical garden. 

I go every Sunday.

I don’t know why.

It could be the white tags hanging from the trees

or those sprouting from the earth,

or maybe it’s the Latin names 

of Prunus Serrulata and Taxus Cuspidata. 

I lay in this garden of transplants: 

Japan, Korea, Spain, Portugal, and China.

I let my colourful blanket flow to the grass like the waves

and stare at the blossoms of the magnolia tree

still hidden in velvet candles,

a chandelier of spring. 

I ask them silently if they miss their home, 

if they long for familiar grounds, 

for different consistencies, smells and tastes, 

if the earth is too cold, if they are fully integrated.

I touch their trunks.

Their roots are lost in the depths of the earth that willingly has fed them.

They burrowed a new home. 

It’s just that blossoming comes so late here.