I would like to take you outside to show
you the little garden forest my father and
I have planted with a rose bush that seldom
blooms and small trees of little white flowers
that I do not know the name of but they smell
quite nice after a small shower of summer rain.
I would like you to walk into my room
and remark at how remarkably messy
it is with my guitars strewn about like
my clothes and books piled high on the
floor like miniature towers, testaments
to the written word.
I would like to show you my bed, queen sized
because I once slept on a twin and my feet
would dangle precariously like my heart does
when you lean in close and kiss my forehead
(a move you learned from me and I like that)
see blue sheets that emulate the gently stirring
sea with the rise and fall of our chests slowly
shifting the covers and out bodies uncovered
among our own saltwater lines, ocean wind hair.
I would like that.