Willows of late summer when you
start to shed your turned colors
I remember already
the light soaked rooms
and windows flung open
where Prajna sprawls on her well-warmed paws.
Last night I heard an owl hoot.
With certainty I pulled out his threnody
from the drone of cicadas
and broken ripple of crickets
while we sat around the bonfire
S'mores held aloft in the cool grove of evergreens
with the light and smoke in our eyes.
I harvested the leaves of our lemon verbena plant to make a tisane. E expressed some reservation with the idea, when rubbing a leaf of the plant between two fingers he pronounced the scent emitted to be that of Lemon Pledge.
I plucked ten hardy leaves, downy with gentle serrations, placed them in a glass teapot, and waited for the water to boil.
Would it taste like an antiseptic cleanser or would I be transported to a grove of lemon saplings where summer never fades?
I watched a lone leaf pirouette in midair before its final descent while I sipped the liquor of honey and limes.