Gold dust from the stamen falls
upon her hand as she reaches
for the purple silk of iris petals,
drinks the sweet juice of honeysuckle,
breathes in the rich scent of roses.
Somewhere else
shrill shrieks of infants’ cries
shatter the stillness,
shoulders drop and breasts sigh
from too much sacrifice,
love falters and dreams die
by the side of a road.
But here in the garden for the first time
sweetness and silk and gold dust
are all the girl knows.
driftwood 