Come Sit
written by: Paul Thwaites
We must cultivate our garden,
Too late for frippery or artifice ~
Sit here like lizards,
Wine drinking, quietly,
Skin of old lace,
Warmed by sun’s love ~
A hat of broderie anglaise,
Linen with freedom, freckled,
Beneath parasols, watching old sunsets,
Amused by her shades.
Come; it is no time for weeping ~
See how the birds sit round the fountain ~
Lost for words.
We gather up dusk like armfuls of flowers,
Await scent’s signature,
Tilting our ruby to light,
Creased as brown paper,
In onset night.
Sweet shadows creep into the garden,
Stocks exhale their cachous,
Owl makes silent fight.
Take my hand then,
Cool as the dewed morning,
And let us stare fond to our stories,
Kiss in the fashion of time.
Come now, sit with me in the garden,
I have watched it grow like a child.
The hand’s blue tributaries,
My rivers begin their stories,
That only love may edit.
Let our eyes then decide ~
What prune, what leave,
In the wine’s word,
Are the promised measures of silence,
Sun’s daily celebration,
An aging light,
Sharp as sword.
- Come Sit - December 7, 2025
- Scatter My Ash - September 18, 2025
- First Pears - May 29, 2025
