Her old VW
mows the dirt road
to my shack,
past the noiseless fall
of frangipani,
a flash of butterfly
in deep shade.
We walk in the garden
of now,
and find an alcove
of tenderness
behind the melaleuca.
She listens
to the hidden life:
roots drawing nourishment,
sap rising in stems.
Each twig,
an inverse tongue;
each leaf and flower
a wisdom far removed
from knowledgeable din.

Infrangible desire:
a thousand cicadas
throbbing the heat.
Shyly assertive,
she sings my body;
I, hers.
We sing
the joy
of imperfection,
the caress
of impermanence.
Soft tissue,
exquisitely bruised,
collapses
into limb-sized folds.