In the greenhouse

visual image of beauty
mysterious and private,
i push aside the door and enter,
your scent is a pungeant pleasure
combined with loam
and blooming bromeliads,
the door is damp and slippery inside,
there is a sigh of surprise
as i close the door behind me,
you say its not the same,
some specialness is gone,
i say its always special
when its only you and me,
you stare at me with
diffident eyes
then slide outside
llke warm air
through a cracked window pane;
slipped away to ne'er return again.

1986 wintertime