angelica fits, weaves through my fingertips, out my mouth sprouts morning glories and wormwood blooms across my eyelashes. i’ve lost something i never had; nevertheless i feel the lack in the spaces in my chest.
perhaps some space is left yet uncultivated, yet unpopulated by meadowsweet or marigold -- perhaps i could unfold the silk-soft petals of a crocus, let the columbine alone and let the moss rose grow.