Orbits have pulled us
to this moment. Blessed are you
who call me out of darkness to feed me
low-hanging light, waxed amber
and plump. Let this sky-heart grow, summit
at solstice. Let the tongue loll, hunger heighten,
howl. Let the longed-for ripeness come
from night. Your tender words seed, sprout
and stem, widen white-green hips. Only you
write each tender phase copper-pink, hints
of fire. For the first time horizon
and lantern align. The moth careens
into the burn
of her love, and lives—and I can’t wrench my eyes
from your brightness, can’t tear circumference
from sweetness, can only smolder the plum night
in full.
Photo by Swapnil Potdar on Unsplash
