At the corner of the garden, behind the willows
where I stir the bonfire with a twisted stake
I hear her soft foot sigh and ankle bells
shiver last year's seedheads. She wakes
the lavender moon, makes love-in-the-mist,
stretches delphiniums, forgets-me-not,
powders cornflowers, opens the watchful iris,
is an evening breath, calming in the hot
afternoon. She is my borderland,
my storehouse, my several irons in the fire,
protector of some safe place I imagined
once. She waits behind the apple tree, her
figure just beyond my touch and sight
a sweet pea glow, a tobacco cloaked night.