On any day there is
a room where a poem
can be built, but
the best days are
the mansion of you,
columns and rafters
in pine ascent, your
trunk a solid ocean and
frank lloyd wright pure.
I am not surprised
that your truth is
a garden where one
tree bears all fruits
and your attic
is a place where
all are welcome.
Have I told you
that I wander
at night in the
chambers of
your heart,
where I draw
the curtains
and write secrets
which someday
you might whisper.
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