I am a garden, love, run wild and fertile under your caress.
No gardener could better train these creeping vines
and scattered blooms. So wander in my pathways for awhile,
your fingers tracing waterfalls along a shaking soil.
And we will surge and rush and come again to silence --
there is no sweeter sorcery on this earth.
*****
M.A. Mohanraj
September 20, 1994
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