I can feel the pushing pain of an alder's rose.
In snips and kisses of an old man's cheek
like the baby-blues of sun-shower.
I know this because she shouted it in the virile vines
of the louvers and winded meadows.
Echoing through the valley of flowering, but brawny expectation,
the dying father was the love to a daughter,
and the patina of pressing seeds, once again.