i work hard in the garden, just so you see, straightening out my life, is to be at peace possible?
fireweed shows all colors imaginable, stalks flying, branches scattered, blown down by the wind,
orange billowing around me, stars stinging my eyes.
writing is a curse, do describe a single moment spend with you would take a lifetime.
when i work hard maybe you see, i need to clean this up so you see who is inside of the me you see.
dandelions will never be eradicated from my path, lamb's quarters, poplars, squirrel grass,
poisonous locoweed is toughest.
there is no place like my own garden, we listen to the aspen leaves, my aspen taller and stronger then all the rest, like you. nothing trembling about it,
more like your thundering of the waves on the rocks.
it's not the sex, it's the moments in between
and this is not my garden, it's a piece of perfect wilderness
3 comments:
so well expressed, my friend. :D
I am very pleased.
I was out biking today and the wind was everywhere, but it seldom slowed my north or south progress.
And my garden is still looking for the sun and the last few warm days of fall. Its like me looking and hoping for intimacy which can be elusive and ephemeral.
Yes, it was not the sex, it was the anticipation and intimacy and those tender moments we found in sunlight or shade.
I need you like flowers need the sun, please let me continue to bloom late into the fall.
okay :)
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