The Garden Wilds

She has the pinkest parasol

She opens

As we stroll together round the garden.

Showers in the weather threaten.

She is careful,

But she always gets so wet.

She tells me secrets

Words cannot express

In sign language.

Her hands are fallen angels

Ever climbing 

For their heaven,

Always falling hard

Back down.

Her yard is not so wide

But deep.

I burrow through her rain-drenched wilds

Swallowing her ripened fruit and juices.

She begs me pluck them slowly at the first,

But soon

She doesn't mind my thirsty rhythm.

She's amused throughout our stolen time,

Despite her freshest purple bruise.

- 9/22/25