Desire, the fruit of patience,
          overripe and waiting,
wrapped tightly,
throttling the trees
with coiled potentiality.

One can but see me,
and be sated.
I cannot be consumed,
burned
cared for
pruned
adorned.

What flesh I know,
is only a passing glance.
Ignorance or incompetence,
either meet at the same end.

The dirt though, is amorous
as I stretch into all its nuance,
settling that wayward soul.
The sun showers me with praise,
it’s light on me in subtle places,
echoing my fingers in the earth.

But still,
I hide a quiet passion,
to move through the world as you,
create as you.

I put that lust in sweet oils,
ambitions charming enough for honey,
for dew drops,
but too much,
far too much for you.

On your skin that passion burns with envy,
raises the flesh in sour complexions,
cries out in pain, but at least-
a part of me is with you.
At least- you won’t forget my name.