Give me the clover honey, a pebble on my tongue.
I saw the lion last night again, pacing in the living room.
In my morning stupor, the rush, of a point dilating into a scene
with your fierce spruce gaze contracting to the center —
black pearl a lantern in the house, I blunk the sugar down and screamed.
But a rapturous scream, a wild scream, a hidden scream
that sounds off in the mind and ricochets back and forth
from crown to toes to crown back up then around. You, wide frame with a hand
on your heart, humming in the dazzle of edges white hemmed;
in the chill of the wan shining, I took in breath of the fissling pines,
grabbed hold of two unrelated things, pushed them
into
one thing.
That’s Us. The cabin in the valley
with the trees and grey and cool gusts proceeding on in their activities
while I fall into gristmills of unproductive poetry, and you stand in the open door
banging your chest, face held to daylight.
The Larkspur Horne 
Wow! I read this twice. I figure what it conjured in me is different than what inspired you–like a painting, but this is like a vivid painting, colorful and noisy and full of life.
I’ve actually had multiple people describe my poems as like paintings. Ekphrastic poetry is a niche interest of mine (I’ve always wanted my poems to feel like a museum gallery, as a ‘way of seeing’) so it makes me particularly happy when someone senses this in the poems. Thanks so much!
Very vivid, that’s a worthy goal and you are doing it. Some are descriptive but just wordy cough cough like me sometimes–so it takes a certain flair to pull it off
so good. 🙂 and thanks for fissling — had to consult Webster.