It is too soon
to prune but wilted petals
wave provocatively from
bowing gardens and here
among bent stems the sun is pleasing to my back and shoulders.
Pulpy worms are sweet to scavenging tongues of hungry birds
plucked without warning from spidery veins of leaves.
Elongated roots relentlessly war with nicked and bleeding fingers
tugging at reluctant stems. I know it it is too early but chaotic gardens
long for control once again.
Waiting for you became a ritual,
listening for the sound of your footsteps
in the pounding rain.
The taste of salt still remains
upon my lips where you left it
and in dreams you are evoked
by the wings of seabirds where I have
pressed our memory.
At daybreak the tide retreats without
leaving you at my shore and it is
there I accept loss.
At the hollow of my throat I have etched
your name somehow declaring us sacred.
I’ve unfolded us like origami
Ripped apart our borders
Dissected the shadowed corners
of secrets, forced them into
the light to mourn like the hollow
bones of birds,
I have renamed us where every
memory is not an ache beneath my ribs
and every thought is not an assault on the dead.
My heart is the flush of peony
the color of healing scars.
Summer scatters her shades
in daring colors of red and green
asymmetrical patterns splayed
over fledgling birds taking wing
above silent fields and late blooms
of lilac the deep blush of peony
clinging to a bowing trellis.
A flicker of burnished feathers
dripping with dew flitting above
rolling wheat fields.
Bowed stalks laden with crusty leaves
tender stems beaten to the soil
in need of assurance
the promise of rebirth.