Tuesday, June 9, 2009

Poetry from the garden


What would it mean to she who passed
A single room with a lamp left on?
If two lovers wondered out into their garden
To live where twilight lives after dark
And sit among the leaves and flowers late to bloom
Where the wild rasberries grow
Like chords from the string

Only speaking of inconsequent things
Whe he writes, he'll think of her constantly
And she, understand what the writing means
All he may mark would be his own
Offset by what is hers alone.

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