Q

here, the wicker weave of pale red roots 
ringing ankles, a moat of pants.     “why 
daddy have i don’t have?” the rattan whistles:
   i must not ask why.

this, a scatter of petals, glossy with age,
gathered on trip from table-top to ground –
chin skidding timber, his wide-eyed laughter.
   girl is now monkey god.

there, across ribs, plum-stained vines sigh
awake each night. a trellis promises support 
for the blush of too much sun; an early season
growth.    bullshit.

and here. a fresh violet bloom. press if you
like. it hurts but do it anyway. doesn’t matter:
a little bird told me 
   i am seedless and must wait to be plucked.