The Security Of Fat Buds Opening
Copyright ©2012 Mary Susannah Robbins
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• • •
Sweet as a thundercloud,
Still as the stamens of glowing flowers,
Un reachable as high, ripe apples,
You absorb yourself with honey-thoughts.
Your words sing out like bees
In octagonal combs, revving before their long
I am an octagonal cell
Your speech inhabits. As you move
My intricate stability creates
A context for your sound.
You no more question my home-
Likeness than your shirt.
Here am I, grey and cold, warm and gold,
As you see me, if your eyes
Have not lost their close vision
In journeys to inland mountains.
Here am I, stung, filled, moving