I returned many years later
to that place where summers we spent,
different this time than long ago,
to find there at the garden edge
the tall yellow sun-choke flowers
we planted, then expecting rain.

Their petals sought golden sun once
as we, naive and cavalier,
younger than now, of course, for time
moves as a wave before cresting,
we drown under water always
breathlessly awaiting the float.

From tubers spring vibrant color,
to tickle an iris or two,
the twin soul of our conjoined hearts
emanates eternal stamen,
anthers and pistils of sacred love,
though throughout we die perennial.

The sun-chokes have spread, moved downhill
beyond their original stand,
underground stirs desire to grow,
absorb, envelop, and conquer,
terrains outside of the making;
the soft rains still fall in one heart.

Chagall 2018

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