THE GARDEN OF YOU

 

The Garden of You

You can’t protest—

I laid it bare from the start:

you’d bloom in my verses,

a wildflower in my field of words,

and in return, I’d offer you a lullaby,

a whispered tune for a fleeting touch,

and a glimpse of those secret glances

only you can weave like ivy.  

I’d stake my soul on it—

this’ll make your petals curl.

I can already see your fingers,

delicate as stems,

shielding your face like leaves in the wind.

And there’s a quiet strength in your hands,

a resilience that mirrors us—

but I wouldn’t trade it for the world.  

So come closer, shy one,

don’t tuck yourself away.

Let me tend to you,

coax out the shadows

and the thorns

that have rooted deep within.

Rest against me,

rest against me.  

My favorite pastime is

watching you in your stillness,

a garden at dawn, unaware of the sun.

I like knowing you don’t know

I’m the dew on your leaves.

And anyone could trace

the late hours I keep

by the storm-cloud circles under my eyes,

the tangled mess of my hair,

like ivy gone wild.