Garden Muse

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Poetry  |  House: Booksie Classic
I write early every day. She's why -- and how.

Submitted: February 11, 2008

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Submitted: February 11, 2008



She stands in the garden
every three to five a.m.,
staring in at me through
an opened window
as I sit here writing
her dark cadences down
inside and out of this
dead dreaming town.

The cowl which almost
hides her face is a single
woven gray, receding
back to an infinite
drowsed dark --
anonymous and worn,
the relic of far centuries
handfasted down the well
hidden by the birdbath
in the garden's center.

Just a pale nose and brow
and a few red hairs
straying down her forehead,
her eyes the darkest
dimmest blue I can see,
staring at me, brimming
with the news from the
bottommost of things.

And that pale finger set
to faintly smiling lips
nixing everything
I say: She holds it so
not so much because her
truth is unanswerable
as insufficiently named
yet by this hand,
her silence pent for words
to wing a wilder fire,
infernal bells more loudly rung.

She's naked, you know, inside
that ancient tunic,
with breasts as noctilucent
as the moon, swollen
with all the world's wild milk.

Her image so revealed
it then conceals,
making my ache swell
just where her dark recedes,
her feet now stepping
back over the flagstone path
which leads on back to sleep.

My poem is now ending
as she walks away,
leaving me to finish 
things, to ebb the
crashing wave to white.
What pools beneath
these last few lines
resembles sweet milk,
left here for our
next dark tryst
to curve and curl
then write.

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