Arriving at the farm is the breeze at sunrise A welcoming of soft light
the calendar in a mother’s home are the flowers on the table
There goes Iriel down pon the Bayou She walks barefoot, i say me o my o
Each of us see them in our forgotten dreams.
We are all getting to know moon smoke, becoming familiar with heartbreak.
I believe permanence is measured by perspiration. I am not ready to call a place home until I smell like it.
Promise to bury me in the garden so I can become a flower amongst trees and also the butterfly’s wings
“What doesn’t take thyme?” “Oregano.”