Roguing

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Ripped from her victory garden
With promises of Roses & Violets
Sugar & Sweet compliments

Tiny poems as pollen

Soon left alone, till in hand
Thistle seed as some parting gift
So goes love to life

Roguing now, she

Mothering nature
In the early Spring sun
Blamed, but cultivating, still

Talk

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That native language

A foreign-love affair

A promise to live

Always and ever

For the first time

After all those years

Best friends building a home on a hill

Perfect ingredients grown in a garden

Kitchens and dance floors, garages and road maps

Weary-strong hands holding fast in the night

You talked that talk