the anchor of my disposition
flung and insistent
legs splayed in a dance
bow legged nymph
radiant as science
and magic stumbling
Why do I love her?
I could provide a litany
of reasons beyond reason
such as melting poetry
archives of fingertips
Shall I go on?
I noticed the arrangement of her hair
from this I could tell she was cautious
by the tell-tale dirt under her nails
I knew she was a gardener.
but her face, her face
was like a mirror
in her eyes I saw mine
but I seized her anyway
she resisted
but only for a syllable
she claimed to have invented gardening
so I worked my tool
into the agriculture of her thighs
by the curve of her waist
I predict the seasons.
