A change of linens, pillows plumped and
mattresses flipped over, spritz of mist
smelling of warm cloves and milk— then finally
I might fall asleep. Sometimes, deep in the night
it rains; and in the morning I find it hasn’t been
a dream. Tarot waiting to be read on a wet
driveway— random lilac, red maple; sharp
green spades that cradled gardenias: what
do they know of warnings and misfortune?
Leaf of the cherry, red heart, organ of fire:
I name you as if I could thread your bones;
I name you not knowing your mystery.
In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.