The Blossomed Bough
A bough sways, drunk on its own blossoming,
bowed low by lush lips
that kiss the meadow's grounded green.
Awe gathers there, unhurried,
lingering to slake a thirst it cannot name.
Dew nestles
in the palms of peach-pink petals,
weighing a precarious plunge
into the warm dark of the night.
Distant dreams
spin their soft soliloquy
out of the stillness —
and the night says nothing back.
