Transformation

The vetiver potion to conceal my self and sins

is no match for the honeysuckle so full in bloom

here on this summer Sunday sweet spot

before the masses, quiet enough to hear bees hum

while I, covered with the midnight meditations of spiders,

watch as starlings rise from the meadow in first flight

and small kits feast on clover, silent and unsullied

never minding the interloper come so early to the woods

left wondering what spell was cast for Eden