Spring Destiny: Morning's Melody

I listen to the garden speak well
versed in the technology of destiny;
as close as breath to air
the syllables of life
comb the fruit of the trees,

wise old friends with
wisdom etched in rings
as ancient as the world,
words on their tongues
given voice by the breeze;

spring stirs in the lullaby of their limbs,
each reaching toward music the sky knows
in bursts of blue;

bees succumb to blossom invitations,
buds as young girls coming to flower,
take my magic, they seem to say
to the buzzing
of scent-searching pleasures,
take me and make me new;

and as the sunlight comes to dance,
your absence walks as flesh
in this eternal display,

I hear the ripe dawn unfolding,
an approximation of morning's melody
echoes somewhere in me,
a deep reverberation,
soothing the necessary ache
of orchid evenings,
poison in the vein of thoughts;

and the loss of the sun
gone sour momentarily dims,
with every growing thought
in this garden
that speaks of you.

From the collection: "The Story of Living Things" >>

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