After the storm,
scents swim through
the sparkling air,
ignored on rocks, suffuses skin,
the golden apples of the sun, fragrant
in the blueberry sky,
all in harmony, but for
a thousand tiny ifs–
then ask again
for dawn’s pink light
the flow of honeyed, peach-fuzzed air,
the garden of delights where azure horses dream.
My message from the Oracle. She knows what fascinates me.