Starling and Wildflower
Heat me. I will not plunge into dirt.
Lay white satin on the altar.
Sound is critical, the choir unseen
unaccompanied
at least twelve souls sing
in perfect tune
and it must be an aria or a fugue
that elaborates in the classical manner
on the gaze of man
at water.
Read poetry. Good stuff dammit
not prosaic milquetoast
bad bards sling.
Remember me as starling
and wildflower,
deliver me to all colors
and cacophonies
scents and spun sugars.