Sister, you are more dear to me than all the lilies of the field,
more quiet and wilder-sweet
than the last honeysuckle breaths of spring,
and the fall of your hair as you lift your face
is enough to convince me that I am safe.

Fiorentina, when the heavy rains stop and the earth begins
to flower and perfume herself
with the rich heaviness of soil
like a young girl at her mother's boudoir,
I'll be here if you want me to
teach you there's brightness waiting for you,
and part the hedge of roses with my lyre
and show you more than one way to fly out in the night:
I will charm down the worst horrors of our world and the next
if that will keep you safe.