Circle in a Square

The garden was a perfect square
Lined in moss-encrusted stone,
Constructed years ago, when
Such gardens were respites
From the stink of the streets.

It was a cloister, in fact,
Set in the center of a church,
Flat stones staying cool
In teeming summers,
Moss turning slick in rain.

In the center of the square
Was a circle, a pool of
Flowing water, fed by cisterns
Built by Romans, they say,
Dug out of mountains.

Around the pool were
Blossoming fruit trees,
Waxy lemons and oranges,
Whose petals pungently
Spiked the morning air.

At the bottom of the pool
Was an old coin, green
From sediment and algae,
Which still glistened in
Fingers of sunlight.

It was thrown there by
A girl, who had run through
The night from her violent home,
To leave a token there, to
Ask for a respite from madness.

She stood there, alone, on
That quiet night, draped in
Orange blossom petals,
Hoping her prayer would
Be heard in the silence.

The coin broken the still
Surface of the pool, and
Settled in the rotting leaves
At its bottom, nestled there
For many years, they say.

Although it lies there now,
Cloaked in sludge and slime,
It did carry her prayer
To waiting, listening ears,
And outstretched arms.

She escaped, they say, to
A place in the mountains,
Where the waters began,
Led by the daring hand
Of the one she loved.