What scent, whiff
drove this creature into the wrong hour?
The fly circled the rim
of the piped flower,
wandered into the fluted portals.
This heart-shaped flower
resting on a vine,
The fly returned to my petalled civilization,
drunk with pain,
dying on my flagstone.
In my garden,
beauty is dangerous.
Pollen stings, a bee warns,
my wrists have been choked by vines.
My life is small, doubtful with expectations.
See how the hummingbird rides the heart,
calms me when it can.