I want to lace my fingers with it, gloves of sweetness.
The world beyond my waking life is heavy with salt
A dreamscape boiled in shouts & dread,
Crusted by festered wounds
Ignored, untended.
In the early morning, a gift greeted me
A rare picnic of a dream, one to savor
With bodies mine loves, all of us in the field
Melding a basket of cleaver, magnolia, primrose, willow herb, nettles.
Echoes of full bellies and spirits who came before mine.
When I stumbled on the cache,
My heart burst; slender wildflower seeds in droves
Nestled inside their former blooms long decayed
My fingertips united their abundance with wind and land,
And my voice cracked.
“You must remember us when they bloom.”
