Sylvan

Tell me secrets in morse,

Be discreet like the eyelashes of trees
When they steal kisses from the planets
Rotating around the wiring of your bones,
Be silent like the muted cacophonies of
Five a.m. sunsets dripping from daffodil
Irises and hammocks stitched out of pollen,
Be still like the hydrangeas that bloom from
Empty flowerpots and the spaces between
Your rib cage, the birds are singing,

Miracle, miracles

— And tell me the music box is not
Your heart, it is rooted to my palms
Like Braille: a summer garden in you,
A wintertide sea in me.