Summer Garden

Your face, to me it's a summer garden,
There roses and white lilies grow,
There I stretch out in the sun,
There I'm surrounded by abundance and color.
Your every look - it's spice for my eyes,
Your voice - bird songs in my ear,
Your every word - fresh fruit for my heart,
Without them I'd wither.
Such a garden! How often I take comfort there!
At work, in my cube, your picture's
On my desk, on the wall and on my screensaver,
When tense, I have only to gaze
And my heart's at ease.
At dawn, when I hang between sleep and dream,
There you hover,
And though I could wake and rouse the real,
I don't, but prolong my doze.
And of course, now, oh now,
When I watch you come down the stair.
Such beauty, I think, cannot be chance,
No random chain of events,
Could've put you together,
There must, I think, be a gardener.
These lines, they're my thanks.

"Hey!", you say, "I know that look,
You, my friend, are shit out of luck!
Remember you shared the silly thing you're working on?
Too bad for you, your gardener and your garden
Have so much in common.
After all I've done to get ready,
We are going to the party."

Later, tired and once more at home,
We share a glass of wine on the deck
And eat the first cherries from our tree.
I see it across the yard in light thrown by a window
It looks ghostly in its dress of bird netting.
You say, "We need to trim the hedge tomorrow,
It's no longer neat and square,
And weed the beds along the front walk.
Perhaps you could get out the rototiller.
We'll plant peas, though its late in summer."
Of a sudden, I know how to finish my foolish writing.
"Now," you say, "Would be just fine".
So I turn my mind to another kind of tilling.