Untie laurels between blinks: ember
mistletoe,

mental forget-me-nots of
marching band practice and
my grandmother’s rose bushes. 
 
The dreams will return until I accept
my rusty rose-colored vision, 
my cello avalanche voice, 
the touch of key lime zephyr,
the mystical spring of mint. 
 
Our grandparents are often 
the first after the storm:
Their woodwinds and wildflowers 
suffer no further disasters in towers. 
Return to safety by meditating 
on the pink rose head suspended 
in the middle of their kitchen table.
 
Inspired by The Writing Prompts for The Star from “Tarot Rituals” by Nancy C Antenucci and Paint Chip Poetry