Rose and poppy flirt with fire,
scarlet fragrance on promiscuous wind.
Pollen makes a spaceless pilgrimage
from pistil to stamen,
like the wandering of a breath
through the chambers of your heart.
Bees brew honey in a secret place,
scentless and white.
These are generous signs
that you soul is not a thing, my love,
but the dance of all you will become
in diamond darkness brighter than death.
You've let sorrow break your heart,
why not let joy?
Why not lick moonlight from your fingers,
tasting of thunder?
There's an emptiness between
your breastbone and belly
where inhalation and exhalation kiss,
effusing starry musk.
Worlds can happen in that sticky dot
of incomprehensible sweetness.
The sign that you have been there
is a teardrop
enfolding your whole mind
in blue silence.
Never underestimate the surface of things.
They signify the depth.
Painting by Georgia O.
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