Words left unsaid, are like tiny un-germinated seeds.

They cannot grow,  instead they rot and disappear.

No rose garden? Why not wild flowers or fake flowers.

Pictures of fake flowers even a poem written about pictures of fake flowers.

I know you never promised  a rose garden. 

Still I dream of a garden filled beyond with flowers of just romance.

Promise me a garden with lilies of hope, peace and joy.

Daisies of laughter,  trees of stability and comfort.

 Promise me orchids for the future,  planted with baby’s breath.

Plant me a promise of a garden one day.

In my mothers garden, would I find it there?

Through the swishing gowns of honeysuckle,

led by black and yellow tux clad females.

Here sex is carried in the wind.

I looked by the pergola wrapped in a quilt

of red trumpet and a teenage grape vine.

Each year the vine produced miniature green pearls.

Unfit for wine or sultanas.

I looked in the pond my mother had made. 

Surrounded by tiger lilies, solar lights and minature roeses.

One for every Mothers Day. 

 A hearty purple smoke tree placed next to a ceramic bird bath.

Garden fairies played their silent instruments to amuse the coy fish.

I looked between the thistle weeds that I pulled out and tossed aside.

I searched through the bluebells, marigolds and lilly of the valley. 

I worked hard, the sun buring my face.

freckles forming prodomintaly on fair skin,

blonde streaking through strawberry hair.

I didn’t find what I was seeking.

So what now, what’s left?
Cellophane and tinfoil dreams.
Was I meant to fly?

Where would I take you,
on an evening such as this?
Much to casual.

You and me at last.

So many lost memories.

Can I stay with you?

Down a steep winding road,

filled with lose rocks and chalky dirt.

Each tired and carful step is perfectly planned.

All seems forgotten, as wild perfumes takes me away.

Away from the sticky air and stressful sunshine.

It is hard to explain the wind in the trees and the sun on my face.

It is impossible to tell you how the birds sing and how the grass grows.

It is incomprehensible to say I want to love you.

It does not make sense.

A forsythia

to remind me how to love

in case I forget.

A weeping willow 

company when sorrow breaks

a symbol of hope.

Blue forget me nots

the root of my exsistance

I will not forget.

When I was walking to 9 Roberts Drive on a summer evening,

that happened to be precisely on the 18th of June 2009.

I tasted cherry blossoms, lilac and forsythia that impregnated the air

with sweet rich hues of sensuous aromas.

I felt the sun caressing my face, accentuating the freckles on my nose.

I heard the wind, singing softly to children playing the day away.

As I arrived at 9 Roberts Drive, I realized I was smiling.

I was happy.

I am happy.

mindless paper dolls

traitorous paper people

they are all the same