He loves the garden as his home.
He makes of himself a leather belt.
He makes of himself a comb
to part the weeds.
I am visitor to his home.
I am the lady of the house.
I would not touch him, though I have.
I would not balk to share the sun.
He is fluent in lithe motion.
He is flecked along his flank,
I think. He won’t hold still to study.
He is lined with locomotion, every
I am the woman with the trowel and hoe.
I have pockets full of packets of seeds.
I throw shadows where I go;
cool forecasts my approach.
He is faster than anticipation.
He never fails to elicit a gasp.
He is everywhere, or might be.
I am only where I am.