Old men remember
The taste of a long lost love
Bitter herbs turned sweet

I had told no one
Where that speaking plant was;
For, it bent where no eyes could look
And where the woods became a mirage.

It led to where Daphne took,
And where the butterfly seed would ride.
Sent from a moonlit breeze
near the noxious smell of the tide.

It grew in marsh where all rested still, separate from time;
Where, the digits of the woods can grab you
and the Green Lord wears a Henbane Crown.
So watch where you step when you are among my kind.

Our affections are resinous
By the grindstone, made
Confections.

Our patience tasteful impressions
By words, sweet turpeny made
Ever-growing since.

Our laughter like camphor
Sowed by thyme, made
Love, after.

Your love is unwashed
Grown and ground, made to steep
Cherry beans, grown in their burgundy glove.