Chanson des Fleurs: Song of the Flowers
When the slender yellow thread of coreopsis blooms
when lavender breaks into a thousand thousand heads of perfume
when the oldest scents of ochre and purple roses fill the rooms
the house of hospice quiets, and our true sleep begins.
When, at the end, we ask for what we want,
knowing who we most love –
the gentle people next to us, listening
like the blush in the white poppies floating
in late afternoon dusk, where the children
run laughing through the gardens –
as we, like the desert willow tree
become one with the wind, whose distant
fingers take us to the membrane of the universe,
the whirl of space, of time –
and every molecule of air we have breathed
passes back through the pores of leaves
in the dark barked linden tree,
its light luscious aroma enveloping
those walking below with an ancient smell
of fragrant boxes to hold, then we may know
we are dust, we are dusk, we are the fragrant rush
of the pincushion flower the rain has crushed,
the perfume rising into the air, blessing the house
and all there, moving within and without –
Sandra Dorr
(from This Body of Light, forthcoming, Hope West Press)
