When I return, she’s stitched
orchid redolent cloves into oranges,
dipped the perfumed circle in the violet
of orris root and tucked amber apples
in mountain laurel. It’s Christmas
and the humble orange is now pomander,
more than it was by adornment,
though less than once, that sought gift.
She remembers scents’ protection,
burns beeswax in a service of fire,
wards illness away with air. In her absence,
I’d lock the windows and rove bottles’
squalor, flop in a hopeless apartment.
Perhaps. I buy safflower for our rice,
hibiscus to color my brews and Elixir
guitar strings. Guilty pleasures escape
judgment when no one else judges.
Friends will say we’ve spent too much,
but Teasdale’s right: Spend all you have
for loveliness and never count the cost.
All of our debt has been delicious,
and all the magic I once doubted
of domestic alchemy, says, If you can,
cast the changes, never let the lead stay.
