Wee ***** Tadpolly
Never knew who his
mom and dad were
He had always heard
that they had croaked
in the middle of the night
. . . ribbit . . .

I've heard that my body is a temple.

that disciples once traveled through, they used my ribs
as stairsteps and slept sound in the soft
ventricles of my heart, I've said I used to be soft
and this is mostly true, mostly lies,

you can lay a  f i e l d  o f  c o t t o n  
over  concrete  or cover  granite  in
s  i  l  k  but that does not change the
consititution of what lies underneath
and I have been cold
a bear trap constantly reset, I have been a wolf masquerading
as a girl, slick bricks of ice wrapped in wool

there has been hell in this holy city
and I have been raging through the rooms
scattering caltrops in the halls, wrapping widowers
in smoke, steaking kisses, slamming doors, wreaking
havoc where there need not have been--

Have you seen me? call the troops, have you seen me? fists clenched
temple burning. A chest full burning brambles, hot marble walls.
there is hell in the holy city.


hell.

He called me his little orchid, and I pictured him admiring me, all of my colors and twists, my petals and my stem, exclaiming "look at this one! look how beautiful it is! look at the inside, do you see how amazing that is?" and I smiled and swooned and swayed like the little orchids would in the wind and I blushed so hard you'd think I lost my chlorophyll, or that summer was coming to an end, and I wanted to sing like an orchestra of brass and wood winds because the thought of you thinking of me and still seeing me as precious as a flower after all these winters we've seen makes my heart beat and plucks my strings.
I want you to know that you're still sun, my air, my water, and the soil that my roots are planted in. Even in the winter, I only think of the times you shone brightest and eagerly wait for you to smile again.
I know it feels like winter for you right now, but it's spring baby, and I'm growing!
I'm not a bean stalk, I can't take you to the top, but I'm your little orchid, and hopefully,
you'll look over at the one on your window sill and smile knowing that some part of me is growing right there next to you, breathing and taking in everything you're giving me.

So when you're bored, water me, and talk to me, and it might help you breathe a little lighter too.

From one flower to another, I love you.

at times
we write out verses in a rush
    what we are feeling
believing this is poetry

we may do well to keep in our mind
how the grandfather of romantic poetry
defined his writing at the time

    powerful feelings
    recollected in tranquility

which means,
    in short
that just to let it all hang out

    is not poetic

only when given shape
by rhyme rhythm or meter

we recognize that personal experience
can be an image of much more

    an effort of how we admire
    the wish to articulate human desire