pulchritude

denying tangled birds and broken twigs
you speak of oxygen
of pure green shoots
and the brief wind that sways you

your breath spills lilacs
through the cardboard windows of my soul
my hands, you say, are tulips
of flute-like symmetry

I balance on your oaken arm
as you raise me
to meet the breaking rays
the first taste of the sun's tongue

illuminating
abandoned nests, forgotten flowers
gathered from your spreading crown
by my scarred and spotted hands