Hunting Honeysuckle on a Xenia Sunday

Perhaps it was my cousin Kevin,
with dented black halo for hair,
who showed me
one Sunday afternoon.
His dusty hands breaking the lean, fragile
necks of honeysuckle,
their stems snapping loud enough
to startle hairy bumblebees,
or still the rubbing hands of praying mantis.

The color of mandarin,
all the petals -– velvet and
blooming sunlight tips –
met at the sweet heart of the pistil
that burst in our mouths
like a secret.

I remember,
the runagate green of the stems
braided through the chain link fence
and the taste of pollen
on my tongue.
Remember, like a death,
the withering petals
released from the heaviness of beauty,
tumbling from my hands.