Memories of plants, heat,
And crushing pressure that
Coaxed stone out of flexibility.
With just a pillow between us,
their cragginess becomes a mattress,
a garden of moss and ideas.
My softness can flow like water,
Carving with loving concern
Canyons into questions,
Rubble that sprinkles and roars
And maybe, when evening
Soaks up afternoon,
Rocks will sigh warmly and wetly
Remember the scent of green.