Tuesday, April 25, 2017


A tulip poplar blossom spins
sixty feet down from the canopy,
lands right at my feet like
a sun falling from another world.

Heavy in my open palm,
it is a cool cup of creamy
April radiance, edged inside
with a ragged ring of flame.

There, buttery stamens bristle  
and wave around the tender
center like long arms, hungry
for any lover or savior.

The bees obey the call.
They come in their golden
bodies, lick and taste and suck,
fill their saddlebags with

tulip poplar lust, take it
all home to the hive,
to waxy white combs.
In the winter, they’ll eat

this flower’s spicy memory
by the mouthful – robust,
sable and smoky, taste
of a tree transformed

into light.  This is how
I want to go: a flowery
comet shooting slowly
across the dawn sky,

drenched in hungry kisses,
cherished for all that I can give;
drifting into an open hand,
placed gently on the earth –

one more offering
upon this blessed altar –
while my words, sticky
amber and thick, feed 

those I've left behind
through the darkest season.


  1. I saw a prickly pear bloom orgy of pollen and flower scarab beetles last week. Thank you for your deep words. Beautiful poem. Thank you for all your posts and poems.