shroud me in
his warm silhouette
do soften me still
to the tugs on the barrow
to the honeypot and rosa peace sitting
some too fragrant in the sill
to tendrils of queen anne's lace
silking up the wheel

lost in his travail
to his oil soiled clothing
and pearly white chrysanthemums
and lilies for my biding
when I might again
see him tinkering and typing

to oleander twining
'round the spine of his shade

to the sweet scent brewing in the kettle
so, soon his perennials
settle into themselves
coiled wire around their stems
to conserve his oeuvre fair and open on their shelves
so, if not much else, I might then keep them blooming well