A stream of fine perfume flows from the crystal decanters.

The forest threw back its evergreen shoulders
with a throaty laugh,
and I disappeared into its sun-drenched
shadowy fronds;
the ways of the streams
became the vervain pathways of my heart,
the moss became my blanket,
the ferns, my pillow.

I had left the reason behind
that I needed a brick and mortar home,
a fireplace, and a kettle.
For I was warm, in this missionary zeal,
beneath the branches of religion.
Only summer’s day could mend this;
no rain or snow could fall
and drive me back beneath the eaves.

Emily Isaacson

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