I lived in an orchard
in the sun-green society
of leaves. The shade
lures me under trees still
for long stretches
when the sky
withholds rain
and the season
threatens fire
and the birds
mistake my open back door
for open air.

Meet you
on the avenue
of one hundred fountains—
may the fountains
mist our hair.
In the place
where moss
softens ruins,
new greens unfasten
amidst ferns,
spout delicate
on the rims of pools
and the water
from the mouths
of fountains falls,
movement a sound.