The crickets stopped chirping
An hour ago, the same endless second
Your breathing slowed and
Your hands stood still,
Sleeping in the hollow of my hips.
I still can’t sleep: in the spot
Where your head nestles
Just against my neck,
Something is growing: you and I,
Branches of old trees and yet the roots
Of something new: something grand as trees,
Bright as poppies, warm as the rose,
And sad, like those flowers that only bloom in dreams
Ghostly and white, scented like the hope-chest
In a maiden aunt’s attic: a dress too old to wear,
The cobwebbed lace of doilies,
A packet of seeds unplanted,
A lock of hair from a lover
Who smelled just like you
And is gone these many years away