Lupine blue you bruise me, 
blithe as summer. Winged Stinger! 
Breezing hunt-swung, hot, 
haughty, a sun-buzzed curve. 
You fill and flee: me. My bent  
flower beat, stilling swing; 
the arch of your departure 

and – dizzy – your return. I fall,  
dram dream drunk at your touch, 
crusted thick with ditch dust, 
lost, low, crushed blue enough 
to prove anew what’s known 
in root: you ruin me. 
All my mad profusion, 

scent, flamed layers, shades, 
each petal heavy ruse, 
my pollen’s bold excuse: 
all this is just my reach for you, 
your bladed speed, daft greed. 
Insanity, true: waste and lust, 
the both of us, ridiculous,  

but too, what bliss we bring 
in ardent buzz and wafting. 
Strange, tangy fleshed fruit, 
curled seed, swelled hips, 
yellow, bee-thick honey: 
all this from our simple madness. 
Then yes, oh yes, still yes I say. 

Becca Rose Hall studied writing at Stanford and the University of Montana. Her work has appeared recently in Orion Magazine, sPARKLE and bLINK, Orion Online, Mutha Magazine, About Place, the Dark Mountain Project, and SoFloPoJo. She teaches writing to children, writes the Substack newsletter A Few Crooked Words about helping kids love writing, and lives in Seattle with her daughter.