Meditations

There is a special sense of something––

Of bees bumbling in primrose promises

Above Earth and warm grassy curls

Where leaves unfurl and clap

To the sound of the wind.

There is a special sense of something––

Of birds (who sing always anyway)

And suckle on fermenting fruit; A honeyed repute

All rasp but no red

Beneath pink and puddled skin.

There is a special sense of something

Of bluejays who pucker and peck

In the sugary neck

Of their own sweet thievery.

As it happens,

Hollow bones do not make hollow hearts.

We drink abundantly,

With a special sense of something.

Even if it is still too soon for wine.