I'm always somehow drawn to that sense of how fragile things are and how a garden means so differently depending upon whose language you happen to be in or whose century you happen to be in.

Gardens do offer a temporal tableau and certainly mean differently in different eras and indeed geographies (think of the formal gardens in France).

Even your own memory changes over time because of circumstances or even because your body changes.

If it's a drop of dew, it will dissolve.

I think those of us who use language are always trying for this, trying to keep everything from floating away by trying to write about it despite failure.

Each of us is present, but partially.

You can get a sense of the wonderful power of framing by holding your fingers up in a kind of square, walking around the room and framing it differently - how that changes the nature of what you think the room is like.