by John Lars Zwerenz
Scented with myrrh, emerald and moonlit,
The silent temple of the cloister's blooms
Enraptures us as one, solitary spirit,
Outside of our mansion's curtained rooms.
Amid white statues and sprawling eglantines,
How sweet all life does seem.
The evening's hues upon the vines
Instill within our minds a dream.
And as the hours slowly pass, my love,
I hear cadences from oboes and cello,
Distant, distinct, sanctified and mellow,
As a sweet, scented breeze
Graces our naked knees
From the linden trees above.
JOHN LARS ZWERENZ