The gardens are full of tourists
Full of imaginary gardens
Roughly corresponding
To each other. Butchart,
I mean. You and me,
Baby Sequoia, a tourist
Attraction at tourist attractions,
Not much baby anymore,
An imaginary soul of her own
Now, posing for pictures
In her stroller and sun hat.
Me and you. It could have been
A million years ago in Moab
By now. It could have been
A book or a lifetime. But,
It's a lifeline, a baby, a circle
We've traced differently
But similarly enough, enough
Times it rhymes. Sequoia leans
Forward to ask us a question.
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