Witch Hazel clipped for its
bitter-sweet fragrance,
placed in a mason jar filled
with sun-shattering water.
The lone brach swims
on the windowsill as a
golden burst of decor.
Once I learned its
bark and blooms can
soothe and smooth,
the wounds accrued
over decades
of thorny living.
I have this knowledge
pocketed like
scribbled instructions
on parchment.
Yet I let the branch sit,
its decorous and fragrant
tufts of cure
intentionally disregarded for
every dull ache and sharp pang
is a souvenir
of journey.
Isn’t there wisdom
in hurting?
pm poetry 