Daphne

And in July
And here
It always seems the curious in midmost-
the intervening mezzo month.
Not asleep
Something at rest
Something spared...
Swelling deep the plush, jet recesses
warming stories
crafting tales of Spring,
getting bookworm ready
underfoot but deeper still.
And do you know...
what I think?
What I see?
I see Daphne...
and her bottles of memory
all scented
all in a poesy
of wishing stars
and blushing snowflakes.
And for metres upon metres
the flavoured air remembers you.