For Ruth
We are two rose bushes
Growing beneath the elms.
We bloom at the same time,
Daubed by two paint brushes,
Yet outside human realms,
Even the gasps of rhyme.
We stand slightly apart,
Touching, turning petals —
Untouchable to art.
The odd leaf falls, settles,
Not a thing we miss,
The swooning of a kiss.
The elms embrace, hover
Above — sweet shade, my love.
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