gently, with the Cant of Kyrie
a sonance between plants and people
a soft syntax of scent
and the greenspeak pitch
the hum of crimson skin off ripe tomatoes
unplucked, giving red in my hands
I hope the sign of this scent
is not the pain of my pluck
but an answering sensuality
a movement of round ness in my palms.
like the lemon tree I stuff in the truck
the one that never grew yellow, pocked, lemons
but cast a lemon scent like a screaming child
grasping for its mother
the terror
of lemon, of being re moved.
like the Basil when I weeded around it;
the herb warned me not to.
casting whiff like a hard baseball
insisting that I catch
its thought.
like the carrot tops warning me off
their emerald copulation.
now I talk to my plants in lush tones
in the moments after
I inhale their verdance.
By Vivian Hansen
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