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No part of this poetry should be reproduced in any form without written consent from the author, Joe DiMino, who retains all rights: contact

"In the Garden" by Joe DiMino

I will meet you in the garden
When the sun is dew and sweet;
When the air is cool a cushion
Beckoning back timid feet,
Those who fled the night—
Fled the garden—
Though stars beamed not

We will meet at the stone bench
Solid as the coming day
Without distress nor sway;
As blossoms reopen wide
No longer thinking to hide—
For the ghosts seem back
Inside; and down, like a dabble
Of butter, on pancakes stacked
So high, drippings warming
Tops and edges, slickly
Covering our backs and sides
The dawn again abides…

And the moon, through it all,
Falsely blamed for the changes
Only sighs as any good mother
Must do
While seeing her offspring
Painfully through;
Though in the midst of all madness
Parrying wolves and false lovers
With never a seeming rest
Worst critics—her children—
At their whining best
Never short of wailing sounds
Year after year resolutely
Without complaint
Does not shirk her dutiful

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