Little woody star, your resinous perfume
wells up as if from the depths of ancient
wardrobes. In your breath I smell the hot
winds of summer, dry husks of grain
yellowing to chaff in the sun. I love
your foliate points opening outward,
the seed in each narrow chamber
a polished eye observing the daily
encounter. Pressing your outline
into the middle of my brow, I wish
for the kind of sight to carry me over
from the blackened hulls of the past, to drop
into the bottom of a teacup where no leaves
clump into calligraphies of dark foreboding.