By Nancy Byrne Iannucci
I held Braiding Sweetgrass in my hands,
each weave effused an aroma stronger
than a botanical garden. I stopped reading
to cup a cluster of roses in my hands,
some petals dropped when I unhanded them,
as if they didn’t want me to let go. But I did.
I went and held the face of a lamb in my hand,
white, billowy, pom pom head, a flock of them
hiding poorly in a hydrangea bush.
I cupped an old magnolia bud peaking
out of its universe, it pumped
like an ancient heart in my hands.
I watched the gardeners sift forest-brown mulch
with their gloveless hands
spreading it like a blanket over the soil.
I sat for a moment under a dream tree, as if I too
were being tucked in, its white leaves
talked in the wind, some flew away into butterflies.
I breathed in the last of the roses before I left.
The chipmunks followed me like I had nuts
in my shoes. When I got home,
I rubbed lavender cream into my hands
to keep the wild on them,
so that I wouldn’t forget,
what we’ve all forgotten.
Nancy Byrne Iannucci is a widely published poet from Long Island, New York who currently lives in Troy, NY. Defenestration, Hobo Camp Review, Bending Genres, The Mantle, Typehouse Literary Magazine, Bluebird Word, Glass: a Poetry Journal are some of the places you will find her. She is the author of two chapbooks, ‘Temptation of Wood’ (Nixes Mate Review, 2018), and ‘Goblin Fruit’ (Impspired, 2021); she is also a teacher, and woodland roamer. Visit her at www.nancybyrneiannucci.com
