agate

a
  blossoming  
             coyheart
  deman ding
a
  murmer ing  
             narcisse
  daw dli ng
a 
  wayfinding
             youwhile
  collapsing
a
  lipquaking
             halfgrin
  speedingto
a

i bear stares: a hundred.  

a retreat into the woods,  
a fougère hangs on linen.  

blues and greens have all  
of it figured out despite  
the coppery interferences

and an empty breath hangs  
fire about a needy repose

since an answer is known.