stubble field

this bud is older than the tree
a petaled I hides inside
your eye attuned to what lies curled
the strutting edge of green
knows it is the freshest thing
but your hair stands softly newer than leaves
pushing out the fragrant air
as I walk by, the flowers rise
and my breath opens up your ear
nothing stops the will of spring
from making new work of us
standing just oblique, proud,
you watch me
swallow your precious image
an insatiable field

Melissa Ray, 1997

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