From birth her tongue was thick,
Speaking was pain, was muddy.
Here though the fingertips
Turn the crisp green stem
Poignant to fragrance and color.
A gathering of meshing intimacy,
She spins the stem, the particulars
Of the petals blending, lucent
As the sun warming the window seat.
For the first time she knows
The politeness of colors, a pattern
Of bright and binding grace.
Outside the last snow melts;
She sleeps and dreams, trusting
The man who comes to take her home.
