It doesn't matter, this or that,

The husk of ritual.

But on that day that petals bloomed open,

And there were butterflies and wind,

Who knew if pollen would be accepted?

Only until a bud grew where the blossom had been,

Did I see the fruit of love.

And who, whoooo but owls know deep

The trees and woods,

And only those who sleep in the day

Can say, can speak, the ancient mysteries

Of birds and bees and delicious Fruits of Love,
And twin baby-goats, born today,
On the rocky outcrop.

-jenn