Besieged by hummingbirds,
spirit whispers in her he-she sweet
magnetic way about where I am,
about where this is all going.
Trees that have just stepped out of a
James Marsden painting or God's workshop,
(I'm not sure which),
stand there looking coy.
Cells everywhere light up, giggle, electrify
the moment with that great majestic wink,
the only thing to do with mystery is make love.
The only thing to do with mystery is make love.