so soft that it's
almost unbearable,
the June wind coaxes
the lavender open.
At intervals which quicken,
each equal-parts-
furtive-and-
articulate blossom
glows ultraviolet
with innocence
and inspiration—
a fecund mix
and elicit solicitation—
not to you or me,
but the pollen-
mad bees whose
deepening thrum
now saturates existence
with the sweetest
kind of greed.
