gentle and burgeoning forward
or out of the soil
growth is innocent so long as it can be.

it is a litany of whirling around
and into each other
and singing whispers in-between petals.

like doves together in the morning
we are absent minded of anything
but the pastelled and unfurled atmosphere.
lost in everything, especially the warm
exhale of breath from the south.
especially the light
invitation from a sun that will burn forever,
we imagine.

i feel nothing when i become you
but the catch of each slipping second.