she waltzes with moons
in a garden of words.
one hand to
the red ripe,
the other
to vine.
a look up
ahead
to wishes behind
from a bayou dock
deep in the stillness
of black
she knows
the pearl-topped
waves
have graced her yesterday
before leaving
for another’s tomorrow
she loves where
she’s been,
and been where
she’s going
while she trances
to second-hand books
and far away looks
love is flawed,
this she pens
in her palimpsest
heart
but still, her garden
grows
more beautiful.
her long stem
stretches
to the nectar
of a dragonfly’s ebb
while we rim our finger
and lip the sweetness,
only to
cherish the taste
of her fevered library
in her untamed jungle
she dreams,
still, as before.
Bohemian and cut-offs
seventeen forever
and taller than the clouds
and wonders,
then grapples
with the answers
an indifferent bayou
provides.
and she dances to moons
with fat red tomatoes
while Stevie Nicks
plays on
in her garden
of words.
~rick
