Even before I wake, you are trembling
in summer silence.
When your name softens my heart,
the angry world seems to bow
toward some mysterious droplet
in its own blossom,
forgetting who to blame.
The sign that I have called You
is the tiny broken stamen of the honeysuckle
dyeing the whole sky with sweetness.
Only You are insignificant enough
to understand this, Beloved.
Our secret befuddles the important ones.
The distance between us is less
than a bee's proboscis.
You dance on my tongue.