I’m at the edge of the garden
in a white nightgown embroidered with lilies.
This keeps happening without my permission;
a sleepwalk, a run-away.
The scent of my best perfume
kneels beside me here. I sift through the soil
where I have noticed green –
perhaps this is a metaphor for the flesh---
on the White Hellebore. It smudges my thumb
in the wanton sap-start of spring.
Since there is no one here to forbid it,
I gather the fists of petal to my face.
Since there is no one, I kiss them open
as if I’ve already flown away,
flown from blood-rivers and cages of bone
beyond the shudder of petals on the rich loam floor.
Tigerlily, Calla, Stargazer. A cardinal trailing stars.
