Garden

He came again! Several times in fact. It was always the same: I'd be playing in the garden, he'd appear and we'd sit together, me talking at him, him listening in silence. I loved it! The secret boy who hung onto every word I said with such interest that it made me want to say more and more. Occassionally I'd ask him a question; who are you? Why do you come here? How do you know how to get into my garden? What's your name? Where're you from? Where's your family? But he'd always reply with a knowing smile and more silence.

There's a pony in my garden and it's eating all the flowers
Nonchalantly standing there; devouring them for hours
Casually ignoring all the wind and rain and showers
How I wonder whose the pony is that's eating all my flowers

Mostly eating yellow flowers, but it also likes the blue
Now I come to think of it, it eats the red ones too
Truly doesn't seem to matter, all of them it chews
At the rapid rate it's munching them, there'll soon be very few

((hah! my picture is more purple than any purple prose!))