Chamomile

Two pounds of loose, dried
flowers, I stick my whole face
in the center of the bag the way
the sun pokes its head into the sky.
The sharp edges of scent
travel through my body,
resting somewhere in my spine.
I begin to soften, memories of
tea with honey, lemon drops
cracking open in my mouth.
Petals like dried white wings
cradling a small yellow globe,
sunshine and earth sink to swim,
head full of nectar andĀ senses
so full that my thoughtsĀ escape me,
and I’m grateful just to breathe
the royal work of bees. An obvious apple
perfume, childhood years in the orchard.
Fields of these
tiny, bright daisies.
Their generous calming gift
lullaby me away from the burden
of my heavy human machine.