Orchid Promised to the Sun

Sun awaits the pink dawn,
face flushed, anticipation
holding back its breath
lest the breeze disturb this promise
of scented delight.

Morn heralds this passing
in sweet song… finches & bulrush,
then the nightingale:
Solomon composing songs
upon gilded lute.

Wood cradles the orchid,
my warm breath caressing petals…
each fold succoring
heady musk, perfume cast in God’s
desire for Eve.

Don Quixote searched
for his whore and windmills painted
in blossomed fields…
a warrior, lost midst lies and
broken promises.

Hear Browning & Shakespeare
make love in rhyming desire.
My poems now wither,
dust ‘neath the bustle of other
blind and drunken men.

She counts lost heartbeats as
desire, so I dare not speak.
Her orchid quivers
in my hand, though her scent is still
promised to the sun.