We, the renascent

Stealing away
with mouthfuls of fleur-de-lis
toward a quiet, gated dimness,
our unfamiliarity,
ancient as we,
died hushing beneath wraith-embroidered bridges,
captive of conversation.

Plucked ripe under Larkspur shapes,
I was such a green little thing, then,
to be stolen away.

And surely,
my oblivion could not
admit itself
when coolly you thrust
shovel into soil
and looked up, declaring: “I am a mystic.”
For wooed, I was, and oh so,
by the fluidity
of these formless syllables slipping on your wetness
and knew immediately and wholly
that, indeed, you were.

My smallness slipped noiselessly
into you,

and then
when clasped,
our hands were lost amongst
the Amaryllis.