I give you the freedom
to interpret “We” in general
or as just Us
two

may your Intimacies show you
what will guide my pendants
of thought kindlings.
I leave it undisclosed  too.

We are evanescent, Juliet.
Yet complete in how shattered we are.
A fractal.
We can’t trace our fingers over tangible frames of the ways of Connections,
clogs of the paths
Love cracks
from what we believe we have already surpassed.
We know we have no capacity of learning with clear logic
how We work,
what Philia makes of Us
and what we make of it,
how the seeds of uncertain Passions
find their way through
and out of Us.

It is indeed a huge insecurity of ours:
trying to find, trace
(on a lone garden wall
made of bricks and creepers),
and keep in our fragile handling
what these feverishness coming
out of hand do with us.

But then we
stand behind the other
(optionally or not: of our self still),
in the same way
uncovered,
insecure
and trembling
if I make it right, or rather we make it right.

The hands of both parties come
in one click and then
though we accost errors
we make our perfectly imperfect
clingings with some glass in that wall
as we again and again come
and will come into
lessons,
which seem new
but stay one and the same

or saddened by the world ideas that will keep on putting us through questioning “Who am I?”
with our silences filled with answers
that we will keep on becoming
and accomplishing without ever taking sentient notice.

I take you as we are.
You take me as we are.
We stay strong in that pair
of trembling hands that
though they do not know
what is ahead of them
or already as Them
when it comes to Love
or any pure emotional arousal
we make of ideas, we accept it.

We won’t ever encompass it
but it encompasses us.
We welcome how much we don’t understand
our bodies or how all of that
and even more flows
and will flow,
we are it,
teary from resilience.

Errors - not
Broken - not
Nought these names made up for perceiving *** and bodies,
these measly words as enough as one isolation to a whole abandoned waiting room at now

I stay in full apprehension and readiness
of what I come to exist
as and what feeling becomes me,
I won’t chain myself to
the scheme we might draw
with chalk on that garden wall.

And be that too alongside please,
simply of.

I am, will be there,
standing,
unpassing,
going through all the same strangenesses
alike,
yet kissing each
and every one
on their ivory breathing ribs,
because they only seem
to be deformed
and at unease.

I will stay in Love.
I will stay outside of it.
Without naming it or putting it
to any formality

let all these questions be a waterfall on you and welcome each and every one of them.

We don’t have to understand them.
We just will be.
We will stay as questions and just let it be. We don’t have to be apart.
We don’t have to be bound for eternity
with pacts or our bodies entangled.

I simplistically. approach.
these hurt questions with a stupefying tenderness of giving
each and every one of them
a chance to.
A thin line of peach freeze.
Sentinels of senses themselves, my arousals of then.
Phronemophilia stays unswayed. I am still in the same bliss.
Let see where we as consciences will grow and shape to.

In the end
it is seen
that loving anyone or anything
was only the pathway to solely harbouring ourselves and Love itself.
It is unchanginly It.
Same verily sacrum in choice of

then

now

lest ever.

Beds of wilted and ruined flowers are better than no garden at all

I will conquer
Like tears on a sow

One night the wind walked
amid the silvery clouds
singing in choir with the stars
swaying the trees and marking
the love's path in the lunar gardens.

Transparent terrestrial plains
called the mountains to sing
while the snow slid larghetto
to trace the glazing route with love's
cabalistic path till the lunar gardens.

I am beautiful
But I will wither

Grief carves a part of your soul in its passing.
The gaping emptiness that fills you after its left.
Sweeps silently like wind passing through a leafless tree in the Fall.
The only difference their skin bares the truth of what they lost.
The labyrinth of a garden was to veil the corpses that it was buried on.
& it to dies with winter.
How nature teaches us to bear each loss.
But is it nature’s order to grow from despair?
Maybe I’d spent too much time picking flowers instead of watering them.

There's a lovely garden
A precious golden road
Where you can loosen burdens
You can lay aside your load.

There are blooming cherry trees
Mountains violet blue
Pure white picket garden gate
Flowers every hue.

It is just like Eden
As far as eyes can see
But it's NOT our current world
Not reality
There was another garden
Called Gethsemane.

There were gnarled olive trees
And stones along the road
Where the Lord cried out to God
And shed His precious blood.

Then there is a spirit place
Where there is decision
Take a strait and narrow path
Or a broad road to extinction.

If you choose the latter
You'll regret it to your core
But if you choose the former
Heaven is in store
That gate's our Lord, the very Christ,
With whom you've made war
That gate is the Gospel
Which you have heard before...

Pass through the gate of Jesus
For life forevermore!

Catherine Jarvis
October 20, 2020

I want an 'almost' garden
That's amongst done
Turned over soil
Staring into the sun

Unfinished fences
Half weeded walls
Root filled corners
Plants too tall

Half finished benches
Flowers still in pots
Overgrown grass
Trees covered in moss

Almost gardens take your stand
Stay unfinished from human hand
Let your presence be unhinged
Free us from our neatness binge