When camelias bloom in December,
her sisters sip iced tea under the silk oak,
lounging in winter sun.
With two hungry sons, she enters
the circle of seven sisters,
the stuff of their industrious crafts—
triangles of fabric, cylinders of candle wax,
terrarium moss, charcoals, watercolors—
warm rise of cinnamon swirl.
The things she needed.
Her hair brushed, feet washed, body
perfumed, anointed with bergamot.
Needful things
to escape plagues of locusts, gnats,
black death, endless demands of the law.
Her sisters surround her like sweet alyssum,
sweep her into their room full of dragonflies and song,
jalousie windows open to the east wind,
breezes of sea salt, laughter of life—
the del Valle’s piano resounds, a breath prayer.
She wonders why she ever left.
