It has been a long long time since I have known
such delights. Summer’s close about us,
with sluggish days that beg for storing sleep. And yet,
a rain–swift rush of blood cries out that it must be spring.
And all the turning leaves and orange blossoms must proclaim
that life, not death, has sovereignty this day.
I am a garden, love, run wild and fertile under your caress.
No gardener could better train these creeping vines
and scattered blooms. So wander in my pathways for awhile,
your fingers tracing waterfalls along a shaking soil.
And we will surge and rush and come again to silence —
there is no sweeter sorcery on this earth.