You are clinging to Ordinary
these days,
You say.
Foxgloves, butterflies, clouds and
blue skies.
The simplest ways.

But Love,
there is poison in blossoms,
It can kill
as well as cure.
Soothing or stopping
a Hungry heart.
Creation’s confusing
Art.

Butterflies come
from
ravenous Worms,
transformed by goo, emerging
with Wings
of all things!
Once crawlers,
they fly!

The Blue
of the bluest sky
is uncommon
as jewels;
as the Sapphire
of your Eyes
that break me,
Wide.

Even fireflies,
and the Songs
of the Trees,
in Frozen Fire, mid
syncopated
leaves.

And then,
there’s
Desire.