Pulse

The morning is cool, quiet,
set perfectly in place
     and her eyes are filled with it.

She kneels down,

watches bees
bend the silky petals
of her favorite flower.

Time is a deific ox

pulling her life forward, steadily
     and her eyes are splintered by it.

She stands up,

hears a starling
stream music from its breast;
today it will find a mate.

With two fingers across her wrist

and a mild concern in her heart, she thinks

Where does the beauty of a flower go when it dies?

(From the book Selected Poems 2004-2007)