You are unlike
the bright taste of lemon
and you are unlike
the wild geese.
Quiet, you are,
and coiled in tight.
Not like the scent
of the lilies exploding
into the living room. Not
like the milkweed pods
that burst in milky froth.
But sometimes, when
I, too, am very quiet, not
like the perfume of wild
rose, not like the autumn
wind, more like
a hang moon calendula seed,
sometimes then
you let me in and I notice
how there is perhaps
another way to open
when we curl in,
shut out, say no.