Attitude and Fortitude

Attitude and Fortitude  
 
They say  
a garden  
tended well,  
blended well,  
looking swell,  
will seem  
to never had  
a master,  
fading faster  
than  
the setting sun  
once that  
he is gone.
 
Surely this  
is somewhat true  
when it comes  
to love  
so truly blue  
right on cue  
when there  
are two  
who hand  
and glove  
are meant to woo  
a Dominant of Castor.
 
An evening that  
is meant  
for stars,  
firelight,  
or backseat cars,  
spooning,  
mooning,  
voices tuning,  
blending skin  
so deep within,
 
Everything  
that romance is,  
rope and spanking,  
fingers yanking,  
lips and tongue  
and curl  
and pearl,  
hum and bum  
and living swirl  
are gardened  
in delight.
 
But  
once it's that,  
all fight and brat,  
near Pollux  
and bollocks  
and colics like cats,  
the mood is changed,  
and flames  
dispersed,  
from life to hearsed  
to force  
from bottom  
in reversed.
 
And plans  
are changed  
and rearranged,  
and made to battle  
so deranged  
that gardens then
seem through.
 
And winter  
is a fickle time  
that calls  
a campfire's name,  
for then it is  
the master puts
those tools  
and toys  
to rest,  
and allows
that twinkle shine  
to have  
its frozen best.
 
Perhaps  
in spring  
if snow  
and bones  
can pass  
another season,  
the master then  
can tame the flame  
and water it  
with reason.
 
The ebb and flow  
of blossom gifts,  
the go and know  
of blooming drifts,  
twinkle time  
or surly grifts  
seem merely  
entertainments.
 
But  
for a pastor  
living there,  
any wayward  
charge beware,  
a garden is  
a work of art,  
not to treat  
without a heart,  
and stomping  
on the blossomed spring  
can sever ties  
and break the ring.