The flowers tunnel through the core
of spring this morning. Under sulfur
and the swirling heat, wet laughter

Touches every inch of what the wind
has carried here at such odd angles.
By nature, butterflies suck.

The iris open tendrils, and buttercups
slither over the serpentine, pour out
nectar. Delphiniums thrust sunward,

Crystal pollen vibrating soft spirits.
Our bodies have been good guests,
faithful seats of our surrender to

the delirious shapes of the wild,
cropped so close to the ground,
our faces tilted down, lined in glory.