Some uncertain moments
I cannot falsely contain
With only a basket
woven from metaphors.

Some unwearied feelings
Depart
before I can catch them,
Like a child clapping her palms
Reaching to intercept the path of a bumblebee.

These words sting my fingers, too
As I write them
the petals of paper droop,
Too laden with honey.

These dreams tickle my lips
But, I cannot speak them
They hold my hand, rub their fingers on my thumb
But, I cannot write them
They flower in the soils of my thoughts
And I reach out to pluck their petals, one by one
Only to find they have
Wilted too fast
for my idle touch.