A shelter of robins, his heart
breathes into mine flowerbeds
of ballads not thorned nor pitted
heartbreaks upon which spikes
may delay the casting of spring
when seasons run miles apart
to dance rivers with our thoughts
our fountains, deep in the roots
will meet among the shadows…

–

Now, if only…
these words were so a garden of ours
as if I were a Wordsworth, rhymed
and you, a village his, a path shared
with the daffodils in a dream without
but we are no such garden, still, under
the metal c...