Classic Poem

Her old VW
mows the dirt road
to my shack,


past the noiseless fall
of frangipani,
a flash of butterfly


in deep shade.
We walk in the garden
of now,


and find an alcove
of tenderness
behind the melaleuca.


She listens
to the hidden life:
roots drawing nourishment,


sap rising in stems.
Each twig,
an inverse tongue;


each leaf and flower
a wisdom far removed
from knowledgeable din.

Infrangible desire:
a thousand cicadas
throbbing the heat.


Shyly assertive,
she sings my body;
I, hers.


We sing
the joy
of imperfection,


the caress
of impermanence.
Soft tissue,


exquisitely bruised,
collapses
into limb-sized folds.