Some days, you do not want
to wrestle with; you do not
want to try too hard—
you know that even an only
steady rain can beat back
the just-purpled heads of
lavandula: and so you set
the pot to shelter under the deck
awning until the mist has risen
from the trees. You wait until
the air has rinsed to clear,
remembering the Old French
lavandre, to wash, the Latin
lavare, also to wash, as you go in
to close your eyes in the bath.
In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.
OTHER POSTS IN THE SERIES
- Bel Canto
- In the Summer Capital
- The Hourglass
- Frost has silvered the grass
- Fragment of a Poem Disguised as SPAM
- Clear bulb of coral inside a paper shade,
- Private: Translucent in the sun, the laurel is a blaze of gloss—
- Kissing the Wound
- Fire Report
- Dear animal of my deepest need, you want to linger
- Ghazal, a la Cucaracha
- Heartache Ghazal
- Ghazal: Some ways to live
- What heart heard of, ghost guessed:
- A single falling note above
- La Caminata
- Dear nearly weightless day,
- Ghazal of the 1 o’clock caller looking for Pomona
- Breaking the Curse
- Milflores, Milflores
- Bad Script
- Ghazal of the Eternal Return
- Letter to the Underneath
- Tall Ships
- Beneath one layer, another and
- Landscape, with Summer Bonfires
- Dear language, most thick
4 Replies to “Lavender”
One of my favorite essential oils for massage: I use it when I have the notion that my client needs a sheltered space.
That’s what I would ask for, then!
Read the Lavender poem and thought of this festival they have in central NY — my home area!!
Thanks for reading, Lou. Where in central NY? I wish we had lavender festivals around here too.