Soft yellow lilies rise
above the round, flat, floating leaves
in the upside-down sky
of a hundred brandy-scented stars.
Petals curve like a bird’s song,
a fragile candle holder
for the pistol’s trumpet of promise.
The easy caladium lounge
within reach at water’s edge.
Their arrow-shaped leaves point
everywhere; their pale tendrils
spiral upward and touch
the gentle air.
The sun is in its northern home
when the shadows are shortest.
You turn with heated breath
to whisper in my ear:
be most yourself