She slipped into bed naked,
nestled under a birdsong blanket,
and propped herself on a pillow
stitched from easterly breezes
and spider silk.
Calla lilies lulled her and she slept
where music ripens on the vine
and sweetens the lips of spring,
the way grape juice
stains a child's smile.
Butterfly wings painted arias
inside her eyelids and hung them
askew in chittering squirrel holes,
but it was the art of suicide.
This exhibit of buds was born too early -
miscarried into a flurry of February,
and all that was left on the drifted canvas
was a strawberry birthmark.