Child, a crooned lyric
She began as a boon
A pot of pure honey
A map of nearby stars
Her tan, bare feet
Ran on a lark
Kicked and giggled
Her youth song into the air
Storm clouds rolled in
Darkening that clear blue
That velvet ocean
Stifling her very atmosphere
A contrary garden sprouted up
Overnight she was a jungle
Roots white as worms
Nubby stalks of nettle
Milk-weed dripping
Leaves purple-tipped like bruises
What monsoon song is this?
Twirled by whirlwinds and swirling pools
I spurn gloves for this work
Her thorns deserve my blood
And what pruning or weeding
Can I claim any right to?
I'm blessed by her scent
A dab of nectar
A visit to the honeycomb
Which flourishes within her now
Her primroses enclose a secret
Still-budding bird of paradise
Flaming orange
Shouting angry verses with its spiked tongue
Crying and pounding paths
Untamed and unfinished
She will burst the gates
She will break out in full regalia.
But a bell still rings
A tinkling there in the trees
A hum and buzz
Among the blossoms
Yet she gazes up at starlight
Feels dusty ground underfoot
Still sweetens my tea
With her honeysuckle voice.
(C) Tasha Chinnock 2013
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