scent of cure
As winter strikes,
I fly myself to the backyard,
The scent of cold winter jasmine curing my soul,
Rubbing itself past the midnight line.
I hear them speak words of remedy, languid whispers,
Each word a placid hug to my mirror heart,
For not even the silver sphere on the rivers could breeze me the same,
The delicacy, the subtle presence of life it held,
All in grace for my soul to rest,
A cotton mattress laid for the delicate, away from the ruthless winter.
And as spring came, I return to the doors,
Rushing to my gold rings and diamond petals,
My remedy in the backyard long-forgotten.
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