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.

Landlocked
and out of hibernation
remembering
licking roots
along the river’s edge
where stone
met a rush of water
just before
the squawk of a kestrel
heralded
high time to move.

pretending
the beautifully
decorated
mushroom
is meant
for me

I whisper
to a pinecone
“do you see that?”