Hands
 
I held Braiding Sweetgrass in my hands,
each weave effused an aroma stronger
than a botanical garden. I stopped reading
to cup a cluster of roses in my hands,
 some petals dropped when I unhanded them,
as if they didn’t want me to let go. But I did.
I went and held the face of a lamb in my hand,
white, billowy, pompom head, a flock of them
hiding poorly in a hydrangea bush.
I cupped an old magnolia bud peaking
out of its universe, it pumped
like an ancient heart in my hands.
I watched the gardeners sift forest-brown mulch
with their gloveless hands
spreading it like a blanket over the soil. 
I sat for a moment under a dream tree,
as if I, too, were being tucked in,
its white leaves talked in the wind,
some flew away into butterflies.
I breathed in the last of the roses before I left.
The chipmunks followed me like I had nuts
in my shoes.  When I got home,
I rubbed lavender cream into my hands
to keep the wild on them,
so that I wouldn’t forget,
what we’ve all forgotten.

Published in Sage Cigarettes Magazine

Artist: "Jenni" Guinevere von Sneeden, @guinevere.von.sneeden