Constantly

Constantly bedewed,
the brown loam clothed
her hips in moss.
Each stone is soft and green now.
The sexual fury of the seed
became the glow in the rose.
Spring is a ventriloquist.
Her rainbow lips barely move,
yet poppies seem to gossip
in a language of scarlet and yellow.
Up through the nakedness
of our entangled cilia
comes a fragrance of beauty,
mingled with the musk of death.
What would earth say?
"Everlasting impermanence."
If you understand this,
you are thinking too hard.
Just know that all you
ever wanted was here,
and is returning.