Your skin gave quirks of womanhood
away, like yesterday’s bees awoke
at the far reaches so trim of flail and
purr. Sky roped to the operatic-soft,
intoning its primal longing into xylem’s
tiny fists, hungered for the folds of
earth stirring your brine-rimmed eyes.
Gifted you half with wings of their waltz,
the bees crooned in a thousand wind-
glazed nuances through prismed June,
as if to slip out of orbits, where tinsels
of flaming sun accordioned your gloved
hands reaching out, holding the flutter
of gold whispering past, each movement
sparked the way a thing sliced the air.