An Ode to the Marigolds

that kiss upon your moles of apple seed
and coal. you weep a songbird’s melody,
and I tune my lute in the key of you. you
swear to the gods, and I pen your words
into a sonnet. you dig into the ground,
planting yourself there, and I think of how
the dirt under your nails makes you
the loveliest flower out here.

[there you lay in the marigolds, and I
in the tree above. I envy the flowers
for caressing you in the way I cannot.]