that dripped with rain in the shrouded dawn.
Here is the touch that tenderly kills,
and climbs so slowly, on and on.
I've forgotten the hat that I wore in the wet
and the path to take to your black-latched door.
I only remember the cardinal that kept
its perch on the pine, and petrichor.
Mornings are early, dusk comes late
and the wall is gone beyond the gate
but the fallen bricks still hold the green
of the ivy, cruel potentate.
the photo is mine, from my yard.