If I speak of the thick liquor
Of sugar syrup on tree bark,
And in honeycomb of bees’ nests,
In the dark of the hive,
Does your water now taste of it?

If I speak of the slumping, damp plants,
The slow drip-drip-dripping
Into the wet marsh below,
And flight of the water bugs,
Do you hear it echo?

If I speak of the soft satin viola petal,
Of bubbled, soggy foam
Along the shoreline,
Of frilly mushroom gills,
Do your fingertips feel it too?

If I speak of the sun speckled icicles
Off of barn roofs,
And trees swaying in wind,
Like synchronized swimmers
Do you see it before you?

If I speak of crisp, autumn air,
Of picked pine needles,
And low tide’s kiss,
Where the wet bear hunts fish,
Does the room now smell of them?