Scarlet bee balm planted in early May raises a crown,
petals like hummingbirds come to feed from the sugar
water-sepal. Almost five feet tall, it stands illustrious;
I sing operatic family secrets into her center:
aflame we are in our covert convenings, engulfed.
Fittonia: colloquially, nerve plant. I know why, too: endings
in my fingertips hiss as they adjoin dark green leaves;
vivid red veins running rancid, tracing lightning strikes,
inflamed synapses outstretched at the moment of death.
Blanketflower and bumblebees: two favorite findings
at the botanic gardens, buzzing and subdued swaying
in the wind—oh, to reincarnate as a bumblebee:
to worship the flowers, nectar, sunshine, breeze;
to live and die naked, abutting saccharine abundance.
Fresh cherry tomatoes, heart shaped and juicy,
perfectly plump rubies, ready for appraisal. How I loved
these gems into existence, watered them diligently,
pruned them, purred praise to them, plucked their weeds.
Do the things we love always end up crushed in our teeth?
Carmine soapstone owl from the metaphysical store, gifted
from a friend; she knew what I’d seen: on a trail-walk together,
a gray owl streaked ahead in the canopy, just as I said aloud,
I wish he would send me a sign, little love notes in nature’s
geometry. He had an affinity for owls, and now I do too.
Reddening maple leaf, watercolor symphony of green running
to vermilion; brassy wine and woodwind acid coalesce.
It’s almost time to bid summer adieu; autumn falls upon
the ground in whispering shades of burgundy. I collect still-soft
leaves, offer them in prayer. May he be the maple: strong,
protective, formidable. Every season, may he be red, red, red.