In summer or winter it would be fog—
now, it is suspended rain;
new green trees wave fronds in the ocean
we breathe, slowly, delicately,
to delineate what we cannot see,
that we swim on this ocean floor,
blindly, though we see.

Their leaves do not jostle, do not frenzy,
but follow each other placidly, idyllically,
plain for anyone to see
at the bottom of the sea, that mirrors the sea below it.

Time flies but cannot escape.
The air is liquid, strangely silent of bird song,
bursting with the moment about it,
encompassed like a breeze without sound, a word.

Languid, the evening steams in. I plant seeds.
Fragrant lilac attracts no bees, they sleep still.
No insect buzz, no summer heat, the house
made unbearable and the garden an escape.
Now, you are a refuge whose walls are made of silk
and the evening, transparent, seduces all.

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