— Diane Moomey
Days and nights we walked your garden —
spent petals of camellia softened our steps.
Our moon fell and rose, our shadows
on your perfect stucco walls; our arms
fell and rose in cadence with our words,
the perfect rhythm of our words, their brimming
pools flooding the parched years
of our silence.
When we parted, I took a stone.
My own garden, your stone warm
in my hand. A blossom falls, finished,
and wrapped in its pink heart lies one
of your words. Gardenia, saucer
beneath its pot; I tip the water out.
What spatters on the flags
is the joke you told.
Our moon rises — I hear again
the story of your dream.