Gift of Words

Gift of Words

That patience of yours,
standing half the morning
to watch a rose you planted bloom.

So long like that, years,
you’ve waited for me.
I have to watch you always.

Crescent of melon, your bare back
where blouse and jeans have come apart.
The window’s between us.

Too impatient to watch your roses,
I want my hands to feel
the equipoise of your hips.

You turn with a spray of roses,
a focus for my room,
fragrant cloud, I think you call them.

The petals will drop silently for days,
scented on these files and folders.
Sometimes I’ve heard them land.

from the sequence 'The Going' in Mortal Fire: A Selected Poems (Agenda Editions, 1976), copyright ? Peter Dale 1976, used by permission of the author and Anvil Press.

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