Valerian gardens, gardenias in the rosebushes
sunlight twilight and mountain rain makes everything grow like this.
Tricolored notebooks rest easy on the table near me
and the door opens once more.

The door opens.

Has been opened.

Will be opened.

The fan has been spinning, will stop spinning.

The garden will be watered. Has been watered.

The dog has gone for her walk. Will go for the walk.

The dog sleeps, barks, eats, shits.
I sleep
eat
laugh.

My lover goes out the door with a briefcase,
comes home snaked in shadows
will come home, has gone out the door.

The timer will beep, has beeped,
shall continue to beep
the fridge will alert me that it’s open,
has alerted me, will always alert me.
The dog will tell me when she needs to pee,
has told me, will always tell me.

The valerian gardens will bloom.
Bloomed already, died already, bloomed again.

Yet
I walk through the garden, my hands of roses,
and I wonder at this very sunlight.
From my hand, from over the bush, from over the fence
and the mountains and clouds come here
to make these very roses bloom.

The dog licks my thigh.
My lover’s lips on mine.
The sunlight everywhere.

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