We swing like silk or snowswept over mesa flats.
Though in the pith of fall,leaves twitch redthrough the eddy, at eventide.
We sit long-sleeved in a river housemull over music,that warmsice creatures.
Today I raked a melodywith syllables culled from your lips.But I miss you when you gather
chrysanthemums each morning;and on return,float their painted tonguesin glass bowls.
Chrysanthemums round patio lightremind me of our first autumn,when you held my glovein the Venus noon.
Darling. This garden is art, verged on the obsessivebut I heed the artistry in your labors,I hold them dear, their desires unafraid to conjure wingsthat they may conjure flight.
Upon twisting your wrist, caughtin the spindrift of creation,you could no longer heave soil to stack.
I tended fresh earth in delicious seclusion,and laced your pond with chrysanthemum gold.
So come! Meet me under ribboned whitewhere autumn hovers, and the sun sidles near-as the murmurs of our harmonies hold.
Photograph Courtesy: Sharbeen Sarash © All Rights Reserved