Paradigm

You would think by now I know its vain There was this time no anesthesia Even though I was not immune to pain Just the light dulce et gloria And I was blind like Samson without the flame I woke to winter and empty trees Nothing to hide nakedness and shame Except the chilly blanket of the breeze I gave her a spade and told her plant She made a sickle and a wreath And I sang to it – still their sycophant The gardener dreams while breathe.