from porch to pole,
I gather your shirts, hold
them close like years,
follow the garden path, shape
of your footprints.
April unfolds lilies,
forsythia bushes burst.
You clear branches, rake
flower beds,
plant my favorite pink
geraniums, call me honey.
I smile, lean like an old
fence post pressed to your chest.
Touch you like a delicate
bulb, satisfied.
(c)Ann Shalaski 2007
from world made of glass
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