(A Sonnet in response to Debora Moore's Glass Orchidarium exhibition)

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Nymphs, your glass bodies do frame our own curves
mortality’s lost scents we are — breezes
in the nostril, prayers of lovers, hip swerves
in the cup of night, a kiss that eases
how could we love anything more than moss
more than rain on your belly, the promise
of waterfalls, mist, of soft dreams not loss,
to be fragrant as hope on the chalice
of orchid’s lips? Each of you an army
of love, each breast a song…
missing from our daily lives of steamy
cars, of concrete, of crows, of gulls, of long
unremembered rivers turned to channels
when earth had eyes, legs, a goddess’ shield, arms for battles