Downturned,
the disconcerted bride 
of the sandalwood evening 
refuses her feathered submission.


The moment cast in a backward spiral,
cloaked in a moonlit crush.

She is 
a cornucopia of the imaginal.

Bound in a desirous molt,
she draws winged ones to her feet.

The last time 
she clamoured for a kiss,
she was stung. 

Recalling the gilded promises,
delivered in held breaths,
by her Mother.


The hen, pecking at her irreversible nature

 “Why must you always be so bold?”

 Words that sent her plummeting.

 The day she forgot how to fly.


Now, the pondering carries her,
to the orange fires burning at her taproot,
dusted in pollen.


Mother earth calls to her, 
finding her in a tangerine dream.