It’s to keep the poems I placed
on the wooden bench beneath the arbor
from scattering across the grass,
just a book someone left on the bus
with no ex libris or number to call
Though the book is old and stained
I think you’ll find the poems
I’ve folded into its middle filled
with more passion and intrigue
than “The life of Otto Von Bismarck”
I thought the roses at the market looked
rather ordinary, overpriced too,
and like the blossoms in your garden
quick to join the spinning of the leaves
I hope you will return before dark
Sad if my words to you might
lose their meaning
in a sudden rain or the morning dew