Here is a bed of downy clouds on demand, yet free to us all,
next, a mouthful of sunlight to measure this blossom of late
November, cornflowers, a pretty pop of blue at the corner
of this end of Roundrock Road, the way to elicit care is color,
lavish from every lawn on both sides of the street, the stillness
of dew clutched inside the sweet alyssum ground cover by the door
unmatched for ease of care said the pretty label at Walmart,
to be true, I had misread it and thought it spelled seek asylum,
felt the urge to put my nose into the tiny fluorescence,
perhaps hug it or bite it, so as to carry its scent in the house
of my lungs, the way an animal would carry its offspring in their
mouth, at home I googled it and called it Sweet Alice, the flower
baby I never had and would show it on my camera to my son,
alyssum dulce, floare curgătoare, I explained, it seeks for a friend
and he smiled, smart kid, and called me dulce, floarea mea de departe,
and the smell of his soft skin filled my nostrils from the depth of
the amygdala, and my dor tasted both venom and candor, and I wept.

© 2024 Clara Burghelea