I create love together with flowers, in the most prickly scent and sense you could possibly imagine and we sculpt pollen and nectar together in their bed called soil and rock and all our friends come visit us every day to eat and drink our gifts, us. I am also the history and future of all flowers with perfect clairvoyance. My mother’s laughter causes me to bloom, or so thought the poet. I pucker my lips as the butterfly comes to kiss me and drink from the flood of my story. Sweet, august, maddening, buoyant, the route her tongue traces has no limit. She drinks and flutters and gulps; she asks for more of me; I give without question. Then, she sleeps on me for several hours as her consciousness comes into my soul and she talks about her father and daughter. I weep uncontrollably out of sheer joy as we set the table for dinner. I see Jesus at the tips of my fingers and the butterfly’s eyes are the holiest blue, as the alpine lake at dawn. The lullaby commences.