Behind the Adobe House
Green absorbs the living things
that venture through the garden.
Even butterflies are pulled
and fence posts, propped against each other
years ago, cadence
the broad-leafed staircases
of climbing vines.
A speckled chicken writes
its message in the mud.
Within the house the walls are dark,
the screens crisscrossed with shadows.
I lean against the heavy sill
and listen to the branches
take the breeze.
Along the fence, huge flowers
float their violet screams.
This morning in the pale half-light
that precedes dawn I rose
and sat beside my woman while she slept.
Her face, in shadow, seemed to sink
into the past and for a moment she and I,
hands linked, ran through blooming clover.
Tripped, and as we fell
her hands gripped mine,
her eyes threw me
the flowers of her dreaming.