We walk in our garden like monks in meditation.
Hearts beating together like plucked harp strings,
We are bowed together like wings.
Once there had been a wall my child-self had built
out of mud pies and Queen Anne’s Lace.
You smiled and said
those who do not understand
cannot see light when it is there.
I will sit with you
in the fertile air
in our open oleander grove
until the Apache Tears are gone.
There are parts of you
only you can love
Though you do not have to
love yourself alone.