The borders of the morning drape
Mere cashmere light around your wakening form,
While a supple sun on your mischievous smile plays
And blood oranges compete to make your mien their norm.
The grasping of artists chasing after their game
Trying to raise up Lazarus from the stone chips ideas leave,
Cobbling eyes to see what they feel but cannot name
In the palace of light and shadow your own eyes do weave.
Give me the hand tools of my own stumbling art
In the lengthening afternoon of my days
To turn the writhing branches of the word gardeners art
Into japanese wisteria blossoms of wonder in loves ways.
And yet, when our garden plan is unrolled for all to see
You, my love, are the smooth rock center of my own heart’s trinity.
