“Quae est ista quae ascendit
sicut aurora consurgens,
pulchra ut luna, electa ut sol,
terribilis ut castrorum
Light glints from her shoulders like spears,
like wing feathers, like lifting up
and soaring fiercely into blue,
a sky that changes everything,
the first hot dawn, hand to hand. This
is about to be. She. Flowers
know. The azaleas shift from shy
to a burning bush comprised of
a thousand tiny perfect tongues.
Tulips silken petals tremble
into long drawn out silken lines
translucent and ripe with cupped breath.
Leaves know. Vines stubbornly cling, climb,
and push forward into the light
that is right, unfurling hand-shaped
sails through which all the brightness glows,
from which they are made just before
they let go. In the breeze, waltz-like,
the outermost edges of trees
shift slowly, full of potential,
as if on the verge of waking.
An impossible bumblebee
flies overhead, into branches,
settling on a wide leaf, as if
almost home. It is this for which
the light girds her in the armor
of openness, slow-coming clear.