deepundergroundpoetry.com

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"This�Garden"

Lilacs�in�odor,�to�recall�the�perfume
of�maiden's�amore,�in�her�casting�room
Velvet�and�violet,�tender�but�today
-for�each�casts�its�memory�away.

Roses�thick,�with�pink�and�blush
-a�just�kissed�cheek,�the�stolen�rush
When�courage�meant�to�quickly�steal
this�budding�flower,�and�grant�it,�real.

Tulips�tipping,�to�the�dew,�please�sate
this�thirst�begins,�if�passion�wanes
And�drunkards,�we,�crushing�vines
sucking�our�fingers,�of�green-grape�wines.

-Tis�a�natural�thing�for�me
This�garden,�I�grow�for�thee.

And�all�encompassed,�by�a�forested�gate
to�frustrate�all,�that�dare�penetrate
Hidden,�but�very�proudly,�mine
that�reaps,�that�grows,�that�shines.

And�to�toil�tirelessly,�just�to�compare
this�golden�evening,�and�your�raven�hair
This�soil�I�turn;�A�bed�tucked�in
recalling�how�your�arms�held�me�then.

These�blooms�that�lift�their�hopes�to�the�sun
just�like�I�did,�once�we�were�one
-And�upon�your�chest,�in�red,�blushed
are�pink�roses,�two,�both�full-flushed.

How�I�clamored,�over�sudden�flowers
from�sun�to�moon,�became�fertile�hours
-To�think�I'd�ever�walk�away,�this�field
this�earth,�this�eden,�this�ever-real.

A�tulip,�one,�and�the�dew�satisfied
a�craving�far�greater,�so�intensified
It�held�its�head�up�and�spoke�of�spring
and�how�sudden�it�comes,�once�winter�flees.

And�in�this�forest,�prepared�to�stand
this�stead�garden,�this�fertile�land
I�prepare�the�fruits,�of�thy�hunger's�need
to�fill�the�basket,�with�resulting�seed.

-Tis�a�natural�thing�for�me
This�garden,�I�grow�for�thee.

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