In the low fingers
of the Alps, lavender grows,
fragrance among vines.
It’s not the only thing
that flourishes in the spare
roughs of the maquis.
But by human hands
the blooms are reared, and come to
symbolize the land.
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I too have summer
and winter thoughts forever
budding in my head.
I try to train them
like bonsai. On the best days
my summer garden
grows tall and pulls me
straight up to the soft blue sky,
frost beneath my toes.
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In Texas there is
no want for French lavender.
It grows in gravel
in our own gorgeous
wastelands. Autochthonous ward
against scorpions
and other household
demons, dried and stored for this
latest queer winter.