You tell me a garden cannot love
you say it's merely complex chlorophyll
coursing through the daffodil
pulsing and processing the rays of sunshine
to make them even more mine because it's not enough
that the energy is for us all but like a flower
becomes honey, the money shot
that brings me in and bids me drink sweet -
sweet and musky - why the love
of this green man drapes across my
husky thighs and you cannot
shield our glory, you, shield your eyes
but your very sighs of disdain are
the orgasmic dance of
inhale
and exhale
of becoming and undoing
that circle and spin
knowing neither will ever win but it's okay
because victories are pointless
and it's the dance that holds the beauty
in the beast of knowing and never holding,
of choosing and always losing, of commitment
to aching in the absence of our love's fulfillment,
of willing into being a whole
universe of possibilities
where absolutely anything can happen
and does
quite frequently, in fact
and acknowledging that does not detract from
or indicate some other lack in logic or process
just because the flaw and crack in our marble crypt
of certitude lies hidden beneath
our mutual love of the flowers draped out
in honor of stories past
come to that
and doesn't the knowledge
that they give air so freely
and without preference for one kind of
dance partner or the other
kind of show the most pure kind of divine love
always under our noses
but invisible
not needing to be seen or spoken of
to be true
stop and smell the roses?
what a shame you merely
peek through palmed fingers
while the scent of our love lingers to sweeten
that which was always and will ever be true:
that I am loved by the flowers
and so are you.
-rrf