young tender
green leaves
anew infinite growth
cyclical tendencies
betwixt a myriad of boundless
promises mixed
with trepidation
purple love letters
written in code
only you and I
can decipher
a purple moth
a passionate encounter
in a shower of white flowers
you lay naked
your soul vulnerable
your body exposed
a love letter written
all over you
liminal continual movement
steeped tea and rainy weather
liminal continual movement
drunk on the idea
of youthful perpetuity
scattered across
a naked body
scattered across
the restless garden
breadcrumbs that lead
to nothing
but a tiny bud
unopened
unbound potent
Postscriptum
Winter is here. The first cold and rain have arrived. Now, the garden will transform again. A continual poem that writes itself. We as writers can merely copy, and provide inaccurate copies of what we were told. You will have to take our word for it, but the splendor of nature cannot be given in second-hand accounts. You need to stand drunk in the middle of a field to experience it first-hand.
For now, my poems merely serve as love letters. Inaccurate as it is, I hope you enjoyed them.
I hope you are well.
Stay safe.
The photographs are my own, taken with my Nikon D300 and 50mm Nikkor lens. The poetry is also my own creation, albeit poor copies of what nature herself whispered into my ears.
