In The Garden

I am drunk as clinging bees on the riches of roses, 

lung-drugged with apricots and lychee green. 

Striped bodies with wings folded 

twitching, inhaling sleep

both of us petal-brushed, dew-smeared. We worship, 

remembering roses are named after women. 

So neglect to time the irises, their ruffled skirts 

twirling beyond tomorrow’s concerns, and get blissed out on breathing: 

both madden by scent. 

I turn blush-pink, peach-dazed, and kneel before shrubs

bee returning to queen.