I’m spouting.
I must be dead to sprout.
Spirit,
echo, music, play
your fingers upon my heart, make
me dance in your vibrating, pull
my strings. I sprout colors: leaves
of fertile summer, boundless
pinks and yellows at dawn. Leaves
growing out of my head, leaves
imprinted within my body, your
golden seed my innermost. I
break open, where your honey flows,
through your silent streaming, change
then go.