Tea With Florence
It wasn’t her real name
but if I had named her,
her name would’ve been Florence.
Her skin was as pale
as proper writing paper.
Paper from Florence, undoubtedly.
We sat in her garden,
the magnolia blossoms
hanging on a last heavy scent
before spring pulled
green out of its limbs,
transforming it into a proper tree.
Florence drank mint tea,
strong, and it lit up her
cheeks as if brushed with cherry dust.
She grew the mint in pots,
roots forcing freedom and,
fastening deep into the soil beyond
and under her next door
neighbour’s fence, who
hacked at it as if fighting the Hydra.
I drank chamomile tea,
a hardy plant that bullies
fescue to retreat before its will.
My grandmother grew chamomile, I told Florence, and mint and verbena, arugula and beaded poppies, chives, thyme, ginger and cardamon.
Yes, Florence nodded,
But it was her growing
feverfew that brought grief to us all.
A hedge wife shouldn’t grow feverfew.
People will always think you’re a witch.
for dVerse “Colours”. I chose the colour “Tea with Florence”. Photo by Landis Brown on Unsplash. ©Misky 2022 Shared with #amwriting on Twitter. Also written for GoDogGo Cafe “The Witch Doesn’t Burn In This One“.
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