My heart, queen of the beehive and the barnyard,
little leopard of the string and the onions,
I love to watch your miniature empire
sparkle: your weapons of wax and wine and oil, garlic, and the soil that opens for your hands,
the blue material that ignites in your hands,
the transmigration of dream into salad,
the snake rolled up in the garden hose.
You with your sickle that lifts the perfumes,
you with the bossy soapsuds,
you climbing my crazy ladders and stairs.
You taking charge: even my handwriting, its characteristics,
even the grains of sand in my notebooks - finding in those pages
lost syllables that were searching for your mouth.