In the Garden there was a man
a quiet maker of boutonnieres
whose sunflower grin stirred pollen.

In the Garden there was a bird
a hummingbird, a quiet maker of songs
who steeped within his mirth, thirsty for more.

And now she tastes his flowers everywhere
as he weaves them into his lapel
that she might always flit home
just below the crook of his smile
and just above his April heart.