Breathe with me dearest
your slender dreams,
your white hopes,
your branches of innumerable flowers.
It was at breakfast
I wrote your redbud poem,
between oranges and eggs,
the inebriation of fatigue,
the rising of the sky’s daffodil
and its triumphant song,
the never-ending passion
of wet soil and spring,
the quilt of silver lawns.
And the words came so tenderly
to that imaginary hill,
to those glowing stems
of rose and fog,
the redbud growing in the lines
of your perpetual smile,
your lips repeating
the music of my love,
the bending at the hill.
And that is where we’ve gone,
into the verses down the trail,
past years of redbud blooms
to future places,
and nothing died,
nothing changed.
There is a bending at the hill,
and we have curved it all around,
and the place our hearts
watched with joy till dawn,
and so time passes.