Delicacy: The faintest tinge of flavor, the way
I know what words can make you blush.
Mostly for their smell, last summer I planted
verbena between the mint and roses.
The weeds look almost tipped with silver
and the moon is a penny, coppered thin.
I sit in the window bay waiting for the heat
to dwindle, to sweeten in the clover.
Do you know why the green herbs stitch
their tiny shadows on the sill?
After the storm last night, all the lights
went out, down the length of the street.
Warm amber, warm musk, sweet
hook: your scent in the dark.
In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.