Come hither, for sugar . . .

Countless antennae sweep 
the phantom scent trail left behind 
like a runic text, by the vigilant scout 
in the lead. O

pheromones! O antsy, listening 
feet, swarming the green 
pantries of summer, 
each fattening bud candied

with nectar. Fabled ticklers, 
do you really unpick those sealed lips, 
coaxing that first blush— 
a peony’s silk? No. Although

I want to read your frantic vocation 
this way, equate my own nipping 
and thinning a similar instinct, 
all for the garden’s survival. I imagine

your secret anthem: Come hither, 
for sugar . . . Vamoose, aphid 
and thrip, scar and wilt! Let us be 
antiphons of collected sweetness, borne

home, to the others. And if an ant’s amen 
is a full sac, or a mantra to store 
and to swallow, like truth—well, it seems 
small glories need no one, to bloom.