Wabi - Sabi

We wander through so many gardens, doting robins, ignoring the crows. Our personal oasis is an unfinished poem. Plastic flowers may last longer, but their dead scent, cannot compare to freesia and frangipani. In fading grey sunset, I crumble, crouching in musk air. An arch frame with withered wood skin and paint peeling in need of black dye, but still Shalimar honeysuckle wraps like a quilt, weaving around amber roses and velvet clematis. Battle scarred thorns may stick and prick these gangly timber legs, but each blemish is soothed from butterflies floating from petal to petal. In speeding winds I rock like an armchair, helpless to save cherry blossoms falling, creating a carpet of pink upon flakes of green. Knotweeds sneak through a resurfaced pebble path, but my dandelion heart seems fond of its purple tint. Midnight raindrops sting like sake, but I know dawn will bring bright blue skies.