My hands smell of lavender,
of verbena.
Hidden beneath the tufts of silk, the fur of a mouse,
a collapsed web,
I found a kernel bound small and tight.
In it were things that I had been thinking for months,
for years.
In it, parched and withered, undernourished
looking for courage, waiting for harvest.
How many miles runs the road south?
An invitation burned on palm leaves.
Palms burn, an invitation.
Take my hand and I will no longer be a fern.
Not cold and bowed in the shade,
but crisp, singed at the edges.
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