Deficiency

What else do we have but what we can hold in our own two hands? Reticent whispers of honey sprinkle on my chest and I find that soughs deplete the sweetness burned into me. In the palm, I hold a blade of bluestem- dancing, swirling, wanting me to taste, what she tastes, when it rains. I want some of that redolence. I desire the sigh and suck of a splitting cantaloupe to wake me, the seeds to carry these lips to sing, the juice to nurture, and my words penetrate the wind- carrying love to every ocean. If the honey reaches my tongue, I will remember that too much sweetness will keep you forever.