By Jodi Payne
she comes to me on a sunday
cherries weeping
the first blossoms of spring
the buds are on the pear trees but the fruit
is not yet ripe
she comes in with the eastern wind
baring the glamor of her sex
and the hunger of an animal
and touches me
my body becomes supple
becomes fire
she comes to me
comes for me
comes with me
on a sunday
my garden has never been so beautiful
