About Dogwoods

dedicated to smithpeter

One o'clock
twice this night. Asleep again,
awake, your name soft
in murmur. Then you are here —
my dogwood, too many dogwoods.

Yours, bitter-growth, beneath rays
of sadness, watered with why
him, my need to bend.

You were ashes when they became
sudden, without blooms. At one, I see you
on branches, full bloom, rising from white.
Those eyes.

Our roots deep, desires
branching away from loving petals.
Your eyes flower over
broken limbs.

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copyright d. dixon
5.27.04
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