Aphrodite in April

What is it so deeply disturbing about this years spring blossom

stirring me like the bee who agitates, spreading her petals as well as her pollen

bodily dispersal of, returns the warmth, red droplets at each organs rebirth

while at the same time opening up

under my heart, where it is not only breath emptying

its orientation; to not yet fallen

A meeting before spring, fleeting warmth lies awake in bed

human does not wait under her blanket

but tear at each other like frozen roots against stones friction

an upheaval of dormant monsters

It is not so much that you are the flower about to fold

it is my own object before much chance of pollination crumpling around my knees

the knowledge of my impermanent and tender flesh reflected against the old knotted

wood that grows them

A strength that I can never share with my plant relatives

Persephone, it is only the ripeness of your fruit that actually lies asleep under the frost

and the human soul who stays awake shivering, recognizing its own death early on.

Ok,

to you tulips, left behind, then mine

as I noted, you put them to your mouth, not I, a kiss

that I gave to you

this memory of, that once my mouth had you groan against it

and now all that is caught is the wind, thus not caught

so I didn’t have you groaning

you where groaning because of your own dormant monsters, despite me

Just there, as a stone to claw

and remove

your teeth that I will miss

a way of remembering forever the generosity of our meeting

I will not question, but let it lie wet in me a lake

that I draw from when speaking to others

and a well for my loneliness to shine the tears

grown

and pushed aside, or divided

with my own knife in your hand

I sharpen

how we grow, and dig up that which overwhelms us

at least I do