Rose and Wren
Today, I hoped the sedulous wren
which flitted in and out of a slated pergola,
beak full of insects and nest repair kit,
had come to speak to me with your tongue
but all I heard was the drip, drip, dripping of rain.
I know how to find you. There, in the indigo
of an impossible sky, a flick-back of honey hair
and photographs which keep you young.
And here perhaps where ‘belle virginie’,
a candy-floss rose with your name,
struggles to bloom in this garden
while the wren feeds astonishing lives,
squeezed in tight under the eaves,
swaddled within a refuge from the weather.
What I need to remember is not to try too hard
and there you are, with a dangle of dental floss
between your teeth like a wren on a mission,
or in the rising scent of a pink rose
which reminds me of another garden,
another set of circumstances
where, on the third day…
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