one short of my own year of jubilee next Wednesday,
a year less a week apart, she and I.
She moves amongst the flowers today,
her fingers caress impatiens, pelargonia, lavender,
three species of mint and roses, begonia, zinnia,
rosemary and sage, basil for ritual,
Russian sage embracing the solar bank
of our eden in city.
She wanders under dogwood and Japanese plum,
I, pentagenarian, see her, finally,
covered in prayer of the ages,
sacrament of circumincession fire
chrysalized by the breath of Grace
goldened by Time
her soul inextricably intertwined without confusion
in union with that matter:
her heart is on her sleeve and face,
her soul from iris shines,
I see her and know.
For her, I pour my glass of Merlot
on cane and root of my Peace rose,
and God whispers down the hill in summer.
For her, I lay out a verdant sward.
I have dismissed all my groundskeepers,
for I want her heart to be dressed
by husbanding alone.
I see her and know
that the place we heard about and dreamt,
we have arrived in Eden,
and are not ashamed.