Springtime in her garden.

it is the flower that often falls
with a leveraged snip of sheers
and those frigid planes she’d lick
with slow and easy deliberation
if you reached out and handed them to her

soft and supple as a pussy willow
her roots dig deep beneath the soil
and she’d wrap them around you
with startling strength
as she pulled you steadily through

green boughs in an airstream
she’d bend, sway and succumb
dripping incoherent sap
while stroking every tender risk
with the burning buds of her fingertips

calm as blushing cherry blossoms
billowing in a sugary breeze
she’d splice her limbs to feel your bones
with only a gust of hesitation
as you'd close your gate to fence her in