The lilacs, the geraniums, a dove,
The fulsome ivy over dark brown wood,
The raucous children in a neighbor's yard,
The smell of burning frankfurters and steak.
The depth of beauty in our garden door
Frame seems immortal in this dying light.
If we could hold the present as a breathless note
A clarinetist's long pianissimo,
We could achieve the presence of the dove
Who perches on a young girl's fire escape.
She feeds it tidbits with a dainty hand
On which is tattooed a green wedding band.
