There is bliss in the arc of a whale's tail
and the way the rain only strikes me
every seventh drop.
And if you're careful, you'll find it
in the curve between the morning glory
and the tip of a hummingbird's tongue.
But we don't dive in the ocean
or run unfettered through the storm,
and our nectar falls, not from
wordless feathered flights,
but from the empty bend of my arms.