Our Citronella ritual
was far-fetched from habitual
on the bridge and over the river.
We’d dab a little on our wrists
then grab each other for a kiss
to celebrate our mutual existence.
But since the winter’s fully passed
we can return to the warm
forest floor at last.
It’s waiting there for us.
It’s waiting there for us.
It’s waiting there for us.
It’s waiting there for us.
The papillon pavilion
inside our tent was brilliant.
It made me grin,
to be the receiver
of irridescent offerings,
their presence was so softening
and then they’d drift off into the ether.
The skipper and the swallowtail, the copper they would drift then sail.
They’re waiting there for us,
they’re waiting there.
They’re waiting there for us,
they’re waiting there.
I was always fond of finding the first fern frond.
I knew it grew beyond
the froggy waters of the great swan pond.
And I knew that land through and through,
even in the fog.
And the most beautiful thought that will never get lost
is that it’s waiting there for us.