Winter's Dance on a Freshly Cut Lawn

I remember the time when we ordered compost
and you, lost in stacks of words, sociologist,
could not find time to work it into the sandy soil
of Summer Strand.

For weeks the heap of strong-smelling irritation
awaited your attention, until the neighbors started
to complain.

I await the rain, you said. It made no sense
to plant the lawn with water restrictions.

Finally, clouds begin to build and you worked
an entire Saturday to prepare the soil: worked
in the compost and leveled it with topsoil,
planted neat rows of fine grass (No coarse
Kikuyu for me, thank you -- adamant
to plant dark green, fine Blue grass).

At last all was done. And then the rain came.

Two seasons later, on a freshly cut lawn,
I danced in torrents of rain, naked to the flesh,
surrounded by a silvery veil of silence and of night.

You sat secluded in your own downpour:
in the small circle of lamplight, Talcott Parsons
your constant companion, caught in system theories
and process.

Clad in glistening raindrops and shivers,
I walked inside and placed a red poinsettia
on your desk.

You did not look up from your work.

It was midwinter. I took a hot shower
and slipped into tearless dreams.

At early dawn, with you in soundless sleep,
ashen in gray winter morning light,
I threw the wilted flower in the dirt bin.

Is the resurrected red still a laughing cry
in your winterless heavenly garden?

.