My garden, my escape, my breathing space

Color and beauty all around my feet

yet-i need the flower of her face

To make the scene complete

She never believes it, despite our history,

Her denials of beauty are a mystery,

I tell her plainly, but she is unable to see,

The visual poetry so obvious to me.

Sipping tea at my table, looking out to sea,
Where Jason sailed his ship millenia before me,
A different sort of quest brings me to this pier,
To see a special local rose that grows only here.

In a summer which is not so hot,
In a poem that is just about fine,
I steal some lines and make them mine,
And ask myself: what is odd, what is right? 

Technically that's one extra line

But I suppose that's just about fine

just try to ignore

that it's not four

but it's five lines this poem of mine