The Orange Tree

The butterflies rise from the fruit

born of the cogs and bones of an inquisitive mind.

Where is the winding key

that sets their flight in motion?

 

I have a secret, a wish

concealed in the pearl of the fruit.

It cannot be juiced, only revealed

when the veil is lifted.

 

Crack, goes the wood.

Crack, go the leaves,

leaving only the blossoms

to float down to your palm,

wingbeats fragile as they die.

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Fancy words for little things

We can’t simply stand around

quoting the words of long-dead playwrights

whenever our lovers’ embrace crumples

under the weight of our hesitation.

I want to speak in my own tongues,

not someone else’s. How can their thoughts

be true to what I wish to convey?

Your muchness matches my muchness.

And I hope it will

forever.