Pearls,
they must be pearls
on the elegant slide
below a woman's neck.

Pearls,
showering from sprinklers,
tick tick tick
across the nape of summer lawns
where the lip of one small blade of grass
quiets for a moment and welcomes the song.

Pearls,
so precious
they are kept within a rich white cloud
whose cheek lies on the mountain's top.
So unquenched am I with need
to open this liquid treasure,
that, like all things, I thirst
while waiting for the glass to be
fast poured upon the restless winds
to wash the air.

Pearls,
they must be pearls
upon the brow of bronzing man,
so sure of his inside sea
that he attracts a glance from me.
With some magic handkerchief
I'd wipe the jewel made with salt
and lick the curl of inner light
that longs for rain tonight.

Pearls,
could it be,
that rumble yonder in the tree
and take the blood to boil hot on this
sweet summer day?


Pearls,
it must be pearls
I hear within the quiet heat,
aiming for a tree and then a leaf
they quiet my heart to instrument in tune;
then harkening to the sky's perfume so rare
I feel one fall onto my hair.