She turns into a quickening storm,
his song falling
along her neck
from a thousand miles away,
a low humming
like rocks under a creek bed
celebrating sun
(her day has not yet found his night).

No remorse
with the song unsung
but loved
and he tells her,
‘your heart is not wanting;
trust it.’

It’s not a slowing down
to meet a still, natural state
but a non-hurried
inhalation
of cavorting blades of grass,
the swivel of sun
amid dipping clouds,
tapping of toes
to a faraway song
and a glint of years
running through my hair
that keeps me aground
yet soaring with renewed
spring in my fingers.

In breaking skies,
she forgot
how his cry pierced
her heart;
sadness
blew west
where winter perched.

His glimpse of her
through mist
tipped joy’s echo in
his throat;
it tasted
borrowed,
of summer wine.

I was gifted saffron
at a tender 22,
when familiar
shallots and peppers
became subpar
to the spice of discovery
of love and the city
on my tongue

-and I tasted
over and again-

until one day
alone and puzzled
in a tiny kitchen
holding a vial of saffron
(a gift from
a coworker
at my big new job
out of college),
I realized I was far from
being a grown up.

New love every week
was not filling
and cooking chicken
in wine just made me drunk
(in my sophistication,
I marinated myself).

Somehow not knowing
what to do with saffron
made me understand
I knew nothing.