unload their blossoms, sweet as orange juice,
upon an April afternoon’s deep blues.
Each golden flower is a private room.
the bees come for a snack, a bouche-amuse,
a plethora of treats. Which will they choose?
The seeds, like onyx lamps, hang in the gloom.
she preens the glowing rooms; her gloved hands hold
dried leaves like interlocking rings of mail.
short-lived, seeds tumble from a cup of gold
more precious than the Templars’ holy grail