Sentry to the Pink Lady’s Slipper, protector of the delicate orchid. Her plum breath speaks in smoke curls that travel upward, a green screen that paints a wet woodland scene. Once you slipped her on for size on a moonless night. Can you still feel the *****
of her bite? Cup the cool water with both hands and watch as it trickles between your knuckles. Use them for falling trees and blowing bubbles into mountains. Make brightly burning fires that lick
the undertow tangling your feet, drawing whiskey from your lungs. Her pink slipper waits. Go cover your body with dust.
Let her gather your crumbling yellow into her moccasin and carry you above the leaf-covered ground to a secret strawberry garden. Smell her red and taste her white freckled with seeds in your mouth.