The Shadows That She Grows Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Another terribly valuable thing left
To spoil in the summer rain,
With the kittens and the lizards,
The tails that swish and slither,
And know the ins and outs of instinct,
Whiskered:
They have her eyes that are always gazing,
Hoping for things which arent yet represented
By flags;
And I don’t know what she is doing,
But that sometimes I see her laying in the
Stones of a cerulean garden,
Growing things better left unknown,
And I come to her for all her lives and she just
Basks there in the swelter penumbras,
Or the rush hours that seem to whisper the
Shadows that she grows.