Pressing the rigid stem, green stain on my fingertip,

The inside sparkles, golden filament exposed

To the westward, shining sun. Drawn tight,

I work them free from the core—

Soft, flexible, the strong thread I hoped for.



The first one breaks as I twist it ‘round a bundle

Of cedar, holly, rose, hibiscus, and crimson berry.

The second is stronger; I learned to work slow,

And thorough. 

Knot the stem, knot it again.

Pull the trimmings through, stable.

A day all to myself—what could I enjoy more

Than spend it with a garden, crafting bouquets

For my paramour, of great faith in love.



A love like an open window, music drifting out,

Like tiny petals and dew.

Lightning clouds, the size of my palm,

Warm, smoky lavender air,

And a single sapphire mariposa.



You sit upon the sill, feet swinging idly,

Jeans rolled up to your calves, knees worn thin.

You look into the cloudburst of the setting sun,

As if the spectrum of light were a language,

Forged in wavelengths, amber and blinding.

The cluster of golden filament leaking from the clouds,

She plays them, plucking the strings with care,

The sound of light, bending on the black horizon.

She calls me by the sound of sunlight—

Call me, eternally yours.

Call me, I will.

Call me, waiting.

My paramour.