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GARDEN

She smelled like the colors
of an intricate garden in which
every geometry and every dimension,
every expression of soft composition,
had the dominant splash, the pervasive
aura, the relentlessly visible subtext
of red

Centered and rooted in the soil
of tradition, North African shawl
over white silk blouse and long black
skirt, the high Cuban heels and the sheer
black stockings, the curly black hair over
dark honey skin all smelled like the gurgling
of cold running water through the granite 
canals that sparkled like sunlight broken
by motion in the highest-walled gardens
of Al-Andalus

“I’m getting older” she said
clicking her heels as they walked
toward coffee at theater intermission
where women of high fashion and girls
without clue set an aesthetic standard that
smelled like the storms at the end of October
that dislodge the leaves, the petals, the last
fruits, and render the garden a study of lost
order overwhelmed by forces without
purpose or merit

“I want you” he said,
sure that every person on the 
atrium floor was fully aware that
the finest theater in the darkening shadows
was she in the red shawl and the gentleman
beside her, that she smelled like the languages
of medinas and plazas, of harems and courtyards
and the pervasive odors of espresso and wine,
perfume and tobacco, lipstick and roses, that 
the breeze of her breath made him sway
with the scents of the colors of night

Shall we?” he said 
and she turned, saying nothing,
began walking slowly through the
flowers and vines with the soft sexy
rhythm that only high heels can offer 
And reaching their seats, this alluring 
composition of red breezes and smells
and Mediterranean gardens of poetry and
song, mother of his children and the 
personification of all he know about plants,
kissed him lightly on the lips and looked
toward the stage “Yes we shall” she softly
whispered like a nocturnal breeze
in a garden where the walls smell like
oranges and jasmine and the
color of red
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