It seems like a metamorphosis
of sorts.
There is evolution of the language
in the shade of pines,
assuaged by a sun companion,
the complexities of the song
from her secret heart-
a pastorale,
that lures and covers me.
I become sacrificial
and my tongue,
a voice in the chorus,
melds with the music.
A heightened song
of concurrence-
wrapped in vines of honeysuckle,
floating in basins of still water.
Ringing true, long after
the last word is uttered
in near, deep silence.
Taps and Ratamacues 
Love this, especially the honeysuckle!
Thank you, Jean!
What a lovely poem . . . evokes a sense of peacefulness.
Thank you Cathy!
You’re welcome. 🙂
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