The Book House Hotel, Bursa

Kitap Evi Otel, Bursa, Turkey

How has pleasure become like this?Ottoman garden on a hot day in Bursa, away from trafficthough it winds up the hills tooting from far away.Behind, a timber building holding the memories of books.A white fountain of grey-veined marble—two falls only—simple shells scalloped at the edge like oyster rims,a wide square base, and water playing with a stray breezetilting to that music, soft lute behind the courtyard trees.

Dwarf pomegranate full of leafsprinkled with miniature fruit like burnished pearstucks in under a Russian olive tree, its lower fruitraw inside silver fur, sun above turning top berries red.A small lace maple is autumnal fiery rustnot shaken out yet, resting hesitant on slender boughs.The breath of trees is a sigh along the skinwanting for nothing. Wanting nothing.

Against terra cotta walls, a tall magnolia, finished with its scentfor now, balances green fronds and knobbly seed pods.Yellow pansies in long trays call the sunlightdown from high stone walls where ivy spills mottled trailerstoward grey flags set with broken Iznik tiles,indigo, turquoise and tomato red, fractured in hot afternoons.After dusk, tiny amber beads of light will veil the solidity ofrock walls we rely on—yet they could quake into a tumble of earth.

The muezzin calls in real melody from Ulu Camii, beneathUludağ, "Sublime Mountain," home to pink primrose, golden eagles.But here, a turtle is making its slow scrunching pathacross the courtyard. Overhead, golden sycamore leaves spiral randomly, as if sunlight is falling from the trees,dipping into the fountain softly, onto my hair, gently.They have no purpose but to float, momentarily.I have lived all my life for this garden.