In summer
my stalk is fragile as
blown glass,
wilting celery.
The wishbone of my ribcage
trembles,
though windless.
I am the lily on the
edge of wilting.
I splay hopeful petals.
Catch watery light.
Rain doesn’t come
in rivulets, but from the
hummingbird’s wing.
Effervescent.
Bees nestle within my
cool folds,
taking from me so that
I might give—
bend to the source.
Hunger for it.
Rain comes,
tasting of ozone
and manna.
I unfold—
winging toward indigo.