As hummingbirds lilted near pomegranates,
ripened ovaries, leaking over sour-necked
nectar, pollen, carpel, stigma,
your lips remind me of petals—
cuticle laced waxy surface.
Angiosperms—your tendons, in blossom.

I witness, miracles,
pulsing cells,
(spyrogyra—charophyte—wolf—you.)
We might be gametophytes,
or we might blend—
sepal covered. Georgia Keefe would be dumbfounded.

Our hands were nature; in them,
our small fingers clutched to the flowers,
and also, god.