by Simon Fillmore
What is given between us,
A garden of shifting light,
Grows, enlarges, deepens.
I sing your voice,
You inscribe my thoughts.
Each of your tears contains A book of my lamentations.
No clock records the breath we exchange.
The entwinement of selves,
Ever closer as years wheel round the sky,
Joins these worlds with no seam,
Nourishes the ground created from elements that predate
New trees surge upward,
New fruit floats down:
This is the garden of our world among moments of love.
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