Falling through the Roof

Your foot falls into the bowl of all I am needing, here

among the overlapping pinks, and the greening lapping over.

The spaces around me are become huge, then narrow. You, like honey,

glaze these nightmares. Knowing you're with me through this jungle of  clouds and their clashing

gives back to me my standing and the flowers of my standing, profuse. 

You pretend not to notice my sins. All that you see is a kernel of good in me, which had flown down though many roofs, and could not have stopped falling

without the loyalty you give me, which holds me

and knots me into place, beside your mellowness.

On  this golden ground, I sense you are the gardener this garden yearns for,

the gardener who allows me space, yet the reassurance of enclosure.

You give me more than a roof, through which I need no longer fall. You give me a nest and a bower.

For my florist from Mount Macedon.