violette

​Santa Fina, where are you from 
exactly?  You hold such fragrant flowers 
in hand. It must be that you’ll come
somewhat late and miss how the powers

that be conduct an epic symphony
all for creative you, resonances to celebrate
your benevolence with wine and jewelry
and Neruda. You’ll have the gods of Fate

communicate how they'd rather 
attend to work they can’t leave
due some incommunicable matter
made up indubitably to conceive 

of other options, like pious sacrifice, 
like how bound paper pages of poems feel
as they hug a pencil and card, like nice 
spirals to trace, until earth becomes real

and touched by bare feet and bare knees
and elbows and bare hands, and your face 
disarmed by your own romantic philosophies
blooms bright with new scenes, this new place.