DEMETER YOUNG

Demeter does not know she is Demeter.

Nor does the garden know it is a garden. It grows, invades, repeats forms that may have existed before anyone gave them a name.

Among the leaves, a face appears. It could be a woman. It could be the memory that plants retain of us.

Every garden is also a form of memory.

And memory, like nature, never repeats exactly what it returns.