Honeysuckle in the shade, the day’s
hot store of oils cooling gradually into dusk;
then unexpected rain: thin drizzle a screen
through which late sunshine sifts,
the kind of rain we were told as children
was the spray of tears from God’s eyes.
And the mingled smells of heat and coolness
rouse the blades of memory from their hiding places,
where the musk of your breath mingles with
my own. Each glaucous leaf of the bleeding-heart
cradles its perfect droplet of moisture,
and the air is full of questions. Sometimes
I cannot bear to think past them, to pry them
loose from their trellis of hope and doubt and fear.
The volatile tea-green smells of soap rise up
from the little drawer where I keep fragrances
among the linen— I take out just one leaf
of scent and give myself permission to loosen
the stays from their clasps, the buttons like stars
plucked at cost from their hammered settings.
In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.