DAILY A garden inside Rolls from deep sleep A long ago lover, Sacred to the beloved, Reaches out in green longing. Has the stone been rolled away? Is the moment ripe? “Not yet.” “Soon” Scarcely vibrate The quivering nose, First to sense wet earth, The field of Bluettes… The perfume under supple arms Lifted in surrender, On the possible “yes,” Love waits Anxious to be known. The back of winter’s bleakness Broken by memory, The lover, the gardener, The ripeness of the heavens.
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