Gift of Words
That patience of yours,
standing half the morning
to watch a rose you planted bloom.
So long like that, years,
you've waited for me.
I have to watch you always.
Crescent of melon, your bare back
where blouse and jeans have come apart.
The window's between us.
Too impatient to watch your roses,
I want my hands to feel
the equipoise of your hips.
You turn with a spray of roses,
a focus for my room,
fragrant cloud, I think you call them.
The petals will drop silently for days,
scented on these files and folders.
Sometimes I've heard them land.
from the sequence 'The Going' in Mortal Fire: A Selected Poems (Agenda Editions, 1976), copyright © Peter Dale 1976, used by permission of the author and Anvil Press.