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Floral lines do not come to me

these days are notes – quips on the fly

not a hand – a young love

you trembled to find me open

spread for your unbridled dibble


Row by row you planted

the order by your choice

hell – even the time was yours

somnambulism became me

patient as the farmer’s field


Our garden delighted at first

the shrubs grown tall for shelter

no one could find us embedded

our garden shifted to labyrinth

and I woke


To quick turns and quicker straightaways

our stroll had turned to footrace

blurred in the flurries of future

each eyeing each in the mindview mirror

caught at the start/finish line


Clutching our packets I am equal

to our committed task of choice

with wildflower mix in hand

now is for planting the fields

to hell with the order and timing


We will not need labyrinthine pathways

to define the natural order

of our garden intuited chaos

floral lines will never express

this trembling we have for each other

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