a change of direction

on a whim, I turned left
to walk beneath the magnolia

spilling pink-hinted petals
into a differently scented morning

than if I’d just
gone straight ahead

© Sarah Whiteley



here is where I begin to feel
all the familiar airs
that rush of woodsy musk
the heady hint of rum
they’ve assembled
here at thin wrists
and between breasts
to intermingle with thrums
low hums of pulse points
with infectious restlessness
and I am left as emerald-breasted
as ruby-throated as the hummingbird
we caught only glimpses of
amid the summer quince

© Sarah Whiteley