Graduating to Wet Stones

Dreaming Grandifloras Again (for Fanoula) "...I saw within her eyes, before they answered, slow entanglements of roses..." -W.F. Lantry I must have dreamt her again-- the roses have surrendered their spiny axis. I am impatient recalling their fragrance as it split through fog every morning in July. And the dew, how it settled into each petite crevice of green, swelled on each translucent shell. One by one, a perfect moment carved into dawn. The damascena will return, hewing aurora with its redolence. My retivity lies in the withering remembrance of her skin; impressible petals rising out of a sun beloved valley, halfway between Sofia and the Black Sea: Loose clusters blooming at the tips of stems, hidden inside, hips turn red, yellow, or black at their peak. On the rim of her hip my lips left a secret, giving rise to the full double flowers every lover or gardener praises-- I must have dreamt her again.

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