Buds

A reddishness
like a faint hum
in far trees.
Close up, spurs
sheathed in
bronze silk;
others are suavely
gloved claws,
breasts cupped by
brocade — in black,
musky cyclamen,
milk-green.
Soon, frothy handkerchiefs
will drop
as from a wrist,
chrysolite beads
as from an ear,
the shape of buds
no longer
a layered smoothness
in your mouth
as they answer back
with scalloped
edges of softness.
Then the valley
studded with
tiny antennae
will become
a sea of
chameleon green —
with mists
and waterfalls
and bowers of it
deepening
inside your eye.