06.01.2023

by storm

– kin

there’s the creamy wheel of rucola flowers

when it’s abandoned too long, or long enough, in the garden and the stem grows tall instead of kept low for harvesting

leaves

it’s four light petals spread wide apart and the veins of dark embroidery

resembles sun crosses, that first started appearing for my inner eye

and then later, insistently, in my surroundings

when you brake down the world in typologies the family of things begins to show themselves:

the wheel of veined petals are related to

circling lightning in the high desert

and the shape of eggs in unbroken shells

with the cotton wool covered

wax balls squeezed tight in ear canals

to fall asleep in a city-home

each body contained in a broader circle of their soul

like rucola’s fragrance adopting her new neighboring things as her kin:

wood table, napkin, a spoon and water glass is now related as their souls intersect

so, you focus on one thing to get to know it and all the other souls reply

though hardly anyone of us are taught to include the wheels of answers given when we ask, rather we embark to find

solely the ones we already translated

to speak our daily tongue of distinction

—it is the unbounded fragrant language of things that slowly translate

my souls back into belonging