There’s a room I keep for you

There’s a room I keep for you,
a study in the woods,
a simple cabin
in the mountains,
near a cool spring.
It has blued-edged corners,
cream-colored walls, very soft,
an old lilac bush outside the door.
The door is never locked.
It has a key
you keep in your pocket.
You come in autumn-time,
just before the snow sets in.
You make a fire in the fireplace,
and stand outside the door smoking,
or lie on the floor
on your back,
staring at the soft cream-colored ceiling
with blue-edged corners.
Imagination enters.
The lilac twists and thickens –
now it’s a wisteria with heavy purple blooms,
growing around me,
twisting me into its branches,
giving me support I never thought to ask for,
filling me with its fragrances,
a different one for every shade of purple,
and there are many shades.
I laugh, then weep, with delight,
then snap out of it and tell the lilac
to settle down.
This is your imagination.
It always enters me, too.
I watch you sometimes, from the hillock near the cabin.
You go to the nearby field and pick lilies,
just one or two.
Beautiful deep-throated things,
as exotic as golden lions or black-spotted leopards.
You trim their stems
and place them in this or that crystal vase.
You think I’m a lily, too.
You move me from here to there,
water me or neglect me,
trim my stem with your knife.
Which often hurts
but is sometimes beneficial.
I have little choice in the matter.
You are the one with the knife.
I wish you’d stop trimming my stem.
I watch you as you pick and arrange lilies,
as you stand outside,
leaning against the doorjamb, smoking,
your eyes watching the distances across the fields,
or staring, unfocused, at the voids in the woods.
You’re outlined against the cream-colored walls,
framed by blue-edged corners.
You tend the fire
and lie on your back
and stare at the ceiling
thinking,
in the cabin.
In the study in the woods.
In the unlocked cream-colored
blue-edged
room I keep for you.

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