Tending the Garden

Tending the Garden

Sonia Beauchamp

Dreams awaken
hidden hollows
of sanctuary.

A body made of ice
softens to powdered

& wanting
& waiting

for the thaw
to reveal

lower lips.

An iris exhales.
A quiver of arrows
unfurls into the universe.

Ruffled petals ruminate
the approaching sun;

not all flowers
     when you expect
nor bulbs
     take root.

I lose track
of years,

soften with age.

Sonia Beauchamp