and the eyes are cast too low–
for focusing on any one thing for too long
we plow through the overgrown wheat around the barn,
studying the dew levels, its ability to stay skimming
the surface of marigold leaf and portulaca flowers
burst open soon after a passing storm–
only to close up, after her cups have filled
to the brim with the fragrant rain..
built up from air missing the late summer fires ..
breaking the dam open with myriads of hosannas-
currying angels, golden hairs glistening
in the pool of love’s collision…
as poison oak vine wraps around the black pine
in a tenetious holding pattern-
finely cut crystal filled with fresh cut garden flowers,
smelling like the first autumn day, away at college–
where manilla folders, heiddeger paperback, and patchouli,
meld their perfume– in a heart in love with taking risks–
cavorting with out a plan- wearing classic ballet togs–fresh
out of a sweaty class, holding hands–hardly talking–smiling
a photograph taken before the heart was incised/erased and bloodied–
skidding down rubble–
left to float down the susquehannah river
for just another four decades–
fully promising to be back before the last chapter
of a life spent dancing words, and melodies;
it had to be that way, as it was written in the book of life, no strife
for a person full well knowing..
it’s love, only love–(along with absolving)
that keeps her glowing…& evolving
kate lamberg
all rights reserved..(c) ’13
garden rests in between the tiny explosions,
