I admit to a strange and sad affection and affinity for park

sculpture like this.  Of all I have lost I most miss touching

and being touched.

Out of her element now the fountain empty,

No longer pouring out her heart where summer

Lovers had strolled and paused and kissed,

Her features softening in early morning light

Catching in the creases of her rippling robe

And tipping her sooty hair to a blonde bronze.

Where before she stood firm opposing the water

It is now her form that flows and fills the pool

Of squared stones circled and chinked by moss,

Rises from green reflections in a timeless gesture

That never resolves, her outstretched arm and

Upturned hand forever reaching for something

More than the light slipping through her fingers,

Some love that might begin with touching, and

I do, shadow of her hand in shadow of mine,

Holding Joy outstretched in our bodies' place.

The quoted line is from James Merrill's "A Vision Of The Garden"