To Poets
Who tether desperate secrets
to a careless wind, in hope
of pollination
Who have bloodied their palms
on the heart’s jagged outline
to intuit her geography
by touch
to the bees of literature
the unsung connectors
the pollinators
We swallowed the sun
Her nourish and wrath
we fertilized the soul
t0 cultivate
upon eager tongues, moistened by passion
this rose
of the mind
