if i may compare you to a bud
whose blooming breast greets the noon,
the winding folds do make
as milchèd clover clustered, as honeybees to nectarine.
if i may compare your bud to fist
whose eager fingers blossom
first to pacifying palm,
its features then hang hyacinthine.
for you are peaking Babylon,
you are slates of dampened space;
the quiet dew, the rancourous celestia
if i may compare you to a wildflower, unfettered,
your bosom hosts a butterfly
if i may call you catalyst,
then you are heavy-laden clouds
that—sighing in a fit of sleep—
lay their burden down.
if i may believe you a bouquet,
then you are fieldfulls,
who, dancing deft inside the wind,
defy its whispered sound.
for the syllables of your name
would all but kill me
had i not the strength to speak them!
and the very weather of your spine
would in passing knock my hat awry
had i not a hand to hold’t,
clutched firmly to your lightning bolt.
if i compare you to the thousand flowers
that lift their heads to note the rain,
i would—in telling—be stopped short of breath,
lacking lungs sufficient for your wind,
and i might instead fall mute
and shiver from your storm again.