Weave flowers through your hair
while we sit in the garden.
To be alone with you,
not touching, never touching,
is a sublime torture,
an exercise in self-denial and gratification,
a thin line, a tightrope I walk on
high above the clouds.
They will not catch me if I fall.
My fingers itch with the desire
to pick flowers for you,
but if I pluck them they will die,
as fragile as this moment.
I do not reach. I do not speak.
I try to commit this dream to memory;
the click of the shutter echoing in my mind.
You surrounded by life
far more beautiful than the
blossoms at your feet, in your hair, your hands, your lungs.
The picture of life itself,
the embodiment of the passage of time.
The flowers are plenty, but you take up more space.
In my heart, my words, you will live in
this garden forever, ensconced in the
Spring sunlight for eternity.
Your golden skin warm, glowing,
your lips pink as the petals
raining from your artful hands,
your eyes as rich and brown
as the cultivating soil,
your laughter bubbling from your lips
like an effervescent spring;
I could drown in your laughter.
The flowers will be plucked.
They will wither and die,
but the image of you in this garden,
flowers in your hair, your hands, your lungs,
is immortalized in this poem,
my tribute to you, Goddess of Spring.