Naming what has risen

Why not a crocus from this bulb? Why not the purple of bees’ lust so that, in honey, she might taste something good? Under skin, purple is a private taste, closer to the blood of her tongue, closer to the blood she chokes on when she’s gasping, to the clot behind her blackened eye. The heated force that slammed her shin, that pushed bone from the bone, that arched her but did not approach caress, is another kind of lust. Spring: a madness of grappling. Isn’t that what she sees outside every window? And inside? Nothing unique going on.