Organic One, in her hands:
umber twigs of alder and pine.
She is the hive-maker and he
the drone.

His birch-white shirt
fastened by spruce pitch,
and maple pith: a false bark
worn over bone.

Wanton Wolf, in her pursuit,
lust like vermillion sap, red bricks.
She is the hunted and he
the hound.

She in a green wicker gown,
as bushy as lavender brambles,
which gravity helps
to the ground.

Her weaver’s hands coax him,
turning canine fang into sweet gum.
Moonlight sets their heartbeat
speaking Cricket.

Foreign fruit drip juice,
spirit nectar sticky in her lap.
Phantom branches beckon them
into the thicket.