Where did you get the idea
for a daffodil, God-
the splendid, deep golden
trumpet kind?
I would like the freedom of the bee
to walk inside one
surrounded by glory.
*
Blackbirds: how could one
put into words
that inimitable
staccato furtiveness of feet,
the astute attentiveness of head,
the touch of gold on the shiny beak?
*
Opening my balcony door,
I walk into the eyelevel moon,
a tumescent yolk banded by cloud.
Defying appearances it bubbles slowly upwards
and I watch, waiting for it to burst.
