Dogwood blossom
of the present moment
unfolding four
petals of stillness,
generosity, silence
and wonder, four signs
of your impeccable heart,

and at the core
an infinitesimal pistil
exuding the secret fragrance
of adoration,
which is not ours
to give or receive,
but the tincture of immediacy
known only to the drunken one,
the little troubadour
who visits on wings that hum
at the source of song.
Evening now,
and April after all,
but any moment will do
if you are truly here.