Her Finicky Nose

The sun left her again, and she slept a good while,

Until the daisies alerted her.

Then she snoozed on wafts of clover, then woke again.

This up and down fiction suited her well.

One day she found herself in lavender fields

and tried to ambush them because they were too good for God.

Now she rests with the kettle boiling.

It startles her as if it’s a new passing.

Long days are ahead.

The salt water never abates or stops producing the olfactory poison

that smells like an angry leather belt tonight.

But all will simmer,

and the lights will change for her son to come home after marching in the fields.

There will be peace at the back of her dysmorphic throat.

And a simple nod will bring up the sun again.