Brother Lavender
Remember that when you leave this earth,
you can take nothing that you have received...
but only what you have given.
– Francis of Assisi
I’m steeping in it now, growing bushes in pots,
brushing my teeth with lavender flavor,
tucking sachets in every drawer
nestling it under underwear.
It’s with me, that lavender hillside
in Italy, humped rows parted
by a tractor’s billowing dust.
My laundry is redolent of Italy,
like candied flowers around a dessert.
I met Brother Lavender in a man sitting
on a sunlit ledge beside the church.
He was selling bags of flowers to tourists,
dressed like a hippie from the middle ages.
He was belled with bracelets
that jingled scant melodies
as he gestured to come and buy, holding up
a nose-gay. I came and leaned forward to smell
a burst of scent sudden and soft
as the pretty eyes of a giraffe.
He was a day out of time.
He offered me five for some uncountable
amount in Italian, then just gave me
the whole basket. I brought it home
on the plane, fragrance inhabiting my suitcase
and still carries me to a mountainside
and the portable longing for home
we all keep close, best answered
by spontaneous gifts
and answering anyone’s need.
Rachel Dacus is the author of seven novels and four poetry collections. Her poetry, stories, and essays have appeared in Boulevard, Gargoyle, Prairie Schooner, Eclectica and Image: Art, Faith, and Mystery. Her work is in Fire and Rain: Ecopoetry of California and Radiant DisUnities: Real Ghazals in English. She enjoys living in the San Francisco Bay Area, with its nature trails where she can walk to refresh her spirit and dictate ideas into her phone.
Amethyst Review 