The seeds of the flower hold like a secret the light, the mercurial brightness in its layers of sepals, stashed away from the night moth’s probe. Your eyes are the color of milk, layers of cream trembling before spilling from the bowl. When we wandered the slopes of the hill, the rubber trees spilled moon from slits that you touched for their stickiness. I step out in the dark night, touch the moon in the flower, in the milk of your eyes. When the last drop of radiance is drained from there, darkness spells every word and phrase, sentence runs on without pause, bearing no meaning.
November Poem A Day: Written in response to the image prompt ‘Blossom in Moonlight’