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.
The Kingdom of Enough 