I didn't plan where to put the irises.
The bulbs went in like a snowfall,
and two seasons later
when squawking geese shadows
flew south across the moon,
poppy seeds scattered where they fell.

As the tangled roots of warmer weather
push their way to the surface of the field,
daffodils collide with tulips.
Blueberries twist their branches
around rose petals
like a dancer who has stretched so far
beyond her natural shape
that the form has to break.
I dance in the garden at night
with pink lace climbing my ankles
and my toes bruised like blueberries.

I didn't plan where to put the irises.
The bulbs went in like a snowfall,
and two seasons later
when squawking geese shadows
flew south across the moon,
poppy seeds scattered where they fell.

As the tangled roots of warmer weather
push their way to the surface of the field,
daffodils collide with tulips.
Blueberries twist their branches
around rose petals
like a dancer who has stretched so far
beyond her natural shape
that the form has to break.
I dance in the garden at night
with pink lace climbing my ankles
and my toes bruised like blueberries.

Every day I add another flower—
columbines surprising the lattices on the porch,
shasta daisies with double rows of petals
wild as ostrich feathers or snow,
nasturtiums with edible blossoms.
Summer comes in a flood, but the wind is still breathing
with dahlias curling their leaves toward unknown colors.

I want to make love in the intuitive garden,
with peonies bent to the ground
by thunderstorms.
I want to dance in a gallery of angels
surrounded by wildflowers
and a pasture of goats and sheep.
Every day I add another flower
like the petaled surprise of love.
Every day the magenta blood of wild berries
stains my fingers and my cheeks.