Angel’s Trumpet

At the corner of the garden

brash blossoms as big as my head

fill the sprawling datura.

Are those exuberant upside-down flutes

yellow or orange? I don’t know –

they’re sunshine, egg yolks,

fresh churned butter

from a happy, meadow-grazing cow. 

All day long they hang like unrung bells

till setting sun coaxes a farewell,

cascades of perfume flowing 

over the garden as if a band of angels

had been keeping vigil just to trumpet

this sun-washed scented goodbye —

no desire to hold darkness at bay,

instead, a vespers explosion

of thank you,

bless us, adieu.

Come moon, come stars now,

roses and rhubarb await their rest,

kohuhu and calla lilies too.

Come, my love, to our pillows and bed.

The window stands open,

my arms await you.

So you think angels are fiction;

come sail on their fragrance

into sleep with me anyway.

Let your REM-induced

atheist reveries mingle

with my hermit dreams

and what we both believe in,

roses and rhubarb,

kohuhu and calla lilies,

the garden we tend

and that tends us too.