For Taylor

Who'd think the spreading bark
of the Eucalyptus tree,
holding the heavy scent of lethargy
and darned to the bitter greens of earth,
could feel the gentle pull of hand,
a considerate host?

Even the lustful grape
bends to allow this touch to vine,
already consummated, dripping, gone,
its purple succulent flavor ebbed,
a raisin in the sun, instead.

Dried and bent,
a vine cut back
does not complain for lack,
for though tangled with a lover's haste
then stripped of leaf and warmed,
it is molded into the circle of a wreath,
and has thus, conformed.

Bent of shoulder and heavy shoe, dirt-clogged,
I see how time takes years and leaves the heart.
Each moment casts a shadow on a rock
then moves away without a thought
of kings or the weight of air, even songs
forget the finger picking
but leave the mood of dancing in the dark.

The measure then is how to take a minute
and shape it as a gardener would, within it.