If there were some way
to fashion words out of butterflies

sentences out of the sultry travel of caterpillars

a song out of a lark's plunge

then perhaps you might finally know

or understand a little

the sweet nectar
growing within this new flower
of me

the horticulture of my thoughts

this new mystery
of my being

now that you have spoken
as if on God's behalf

this pleasure

more natural
more wooded
more leaf-ed

more wrought from the very soil
from which we are both grown

and still

I hear you
cannot see this you

who whispers
better than the breeze