I was reading Rimbaud’s poetry –
a recent inspiration brought on by a chance purchase at the Seniors’ Flea Market.
I was hunting for shoes but found poetry instead.
I dreamt of gentlemen savages and
drew comfort from his definition of love,
encompassing suffering and madness.
I digest his words,
every night an amuse bouche
to tantalize my mind.
Tonight, I was gifted with a flower,
pressed between the French and the English translations,
soft pink petals, and trumpet shape,
suggestive of a foxglove blossom;
it fell to my breast,
when I turned the page.
Translucent, fragile, free,
unencumbered by pulp,and floating in the air with motes of dust
in a waltz of certainty.