And now I live for the flowers,
the petals that wither, the petals
that quiver, the petals that wait
for the bedfellow mist, the drip
on the lip of the primrose slip,
the petals that sip, a garden apart,

and now I live for the hour of art,
the heady violets and paw print
pinks, the strokes and the smoke

of the brambling ink, and now
I live for the kitchen sink, the sight
of green, the hosta in need, the host

of the bloodthirsty spiderlings,
the butter dish, my silent wish,
to be one with what’s in my midst

yet still to be with what’s beyond,
beyond my lawn, beyond my sky,
beyond the never tiring sighs,

and now I live for Sappho’s lyre,
the you shaped harp of my desire,
the hand that plucks, the hand

that holds, my life devoted to her
odes, the gamut of the ancient
codes, the rose confounded by her

pose, gardens that shimmer,
the shawls on the shoulders of girls
who shiver with crisscross looks,

and now I live for the library books,
the decadent crannies, the plushy
nooks, the canvas bags hung

on the hooks, a den remote,
and now I live for the stones that float,
for rivers aflow, for rivers that know,

for rushes that spread the petticoat
like a mossy moat, across my soul
across the thoughts I have to stow,

across the decks and necks of fathers,
across the tender streams of water,
and now I live for my daughters.