A single petal of molten sun,
fossilized in a moment of bloom.
Gold upon gold—two whispers of the same flame:
the metal’s hum, the diamond’s slow-caught noon.
Four carats, forty-six points of held light,
a luster that remembers
how morning broke first over the world.
It breathes on the lobe—not fire now, but ember.
The orchid’s lip curls inward, a secret kept,
while yellow diamond burns at its wet rim—
a drop of ambergris, a wasp of light,
trapped in the act of landing, luminous and dim.
Two petals fall toward shadow;
the third climbs clavicle bone.
This earring wears the hour before eclipse
when the sun is most itself, most alone.
Gold marries gold. The ear leans into the nerve
and learns what honey knows:
to be heavy with sweetness, to hang in the air,
and not fall.