Garden and days carried in the beak

We enter the garden, at times, the days and I
- not holding hands, nor across distinctively
presaged archways; we enter the garden -
merely - the days and I.

Wet, those days, and I, merely trickling them
step by step or flower by flower wet, deflowered
until each one is a mere stamen among
other flowers which no longer are.

Across the air, the hands and archway, like wings
that fold, and the garden, flown, blossoming merely
those chants, devoid of petals, of the days
that enter, at times, and I…

Voiceless, wet and nude, merely.

I don’t know if I wait, at times, for you to gather
or to sow me anew, and the days…

But I do wait, and the hands, at times in
passage, unique songbird, for the presage
of all the petals you carry, at all times, in your beak…

Yes, the one with which you write harmonies
that will bloom even upon the mutest, most
achromatic of stems, and inscribe archways
in flying colours across the air, upon that wetness
of the nude light…

So that we may enter, holding hands
and yet with wings unfolded as flowers
in full bloom, the garden…

You… and I with you
– one at a time… all days.

© 2007 Alexandra* ~ OneLight*®