Garden.

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Now
I steal facts
from your history
As if they were secrets at a factory.

And annoy the gardener
at your father’s house
every time the machines rumbled,
Moaned, or cried.

Now again
When the leaves have fallen
and sprung again
In spring.

I can feel them
just the same way
I felt your soft breath on my neck,
the last time we kissed/ made love.

Only this time
the opportunities are low
and I have allowed this transition
from touch to just the wind that touches my skin.

What do I know of love,
after all?
Except that you, my love
are the flower that takes the longest to bloom.

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