Do not plant your roses in this desiccated desert,
they will die of frost and neglect.
Offer the pulsating womb of your garden
to the busy bumblebee, a worker with heavy knees.
Kick aside my cracked scalloped shells that tell
a story of a shore hugged, I was kissed once by
sea but am not worthy of her frills and edges.
I am south you are north, poles do not attract
they exist in yearning with worlds between them.
Take your seeds and sow them in the fertile
ground of valleys, not on this high, cold
mountain top, nothing grows in this hard bareness,
Listen to my voice. I raised myself above
The treeline to define my need of solitude.
I am a winter island above the clouds
and you are a pond choked with a rainbow
of summers glorious weeds.