Come next spring

Yes it’s true,

i haven’t loved you as i should have

and this unfurling of whiskers continues

day after day in the socially unacceptable garden under my arm pit.

How dare i mention black tipped sands growing out of heat and sweat and tar ?

Because like you 

i’m seed and root,

 love and truth, 

dentin and  innumerable insecure  smudgings   

growing like grass,

falling like leaves 

under an autumn sky

come next spring, plant your lawn chair 

next to the weeping willow 


            the hyacinth 



           my petals 



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