You come to me in
morning silence,
your silver edges frail
as a parting dream,
into my garden,
through thistles,
thorns.
Lush tendrils
twine
crisp branches,
cradle pale petals,
tilt tulips
to face the sky,
then kiss crisp
papered shards with crystal seas.
In the dusty fire of twilight,
the wind rests its sweet feather,
you bend roses to your
jeweled lips
and watch the stars
flee into the night
like ancient golden
pearls rolling from a crown.