Roses,
electrically charged incarnadine,
hang heavy curves and thorny angles
Rain,
laying mist orbs that hug leaf margins,
slowly slipping the verdigris of hosta veins
Bare feet following a shaded path of weathered flagstone,
where starling chatter bounces like loose pebbles
Gray is deceptive to clocks,
Gray redirects the earth’s magnetism
The muggy atmosphere feels like anticipation on my skin,
like a thought cupped in my tongue,
and time running out
From which sage and lavender commune,
rosemary blues for the bees,
And coriander breezes reduce me to ash
E.A. O'Connell
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