What my Mother Never Told Me

The wind between the leaves told me;

Go home

before the daisies close

their soft white throats

already drowsing in the gloam.

Take a hat

once the primroses are over.

When their buttery sighs

melt into clover,

the season tips. The light slips colder.

Only blow the dandelion

once a summer.

Its silver breath is a one-time charm

a spun-spell shimmer

too thin to warm

twice-touched fingers.

It told me:

shelter from the rain,

but love the storm.

Let the sky crack wide

let the trees perform

their wild ballet,

all ache and sway.

But never

never follow the boy

into the woods,

the one with candy-rot breath

and roses that lie.

He’ll feed you names

you never wore,

pluck the thorns

from your thinking.

And nothing real

grows from a seed

he feeds.