Let’s wind wild onions
(oh, pale petals with razor scent …) around our sweet retreat.
We’ve no love for bedded blooms, deep Mother roots sustain us.

Deck the bedposts with spiny nettles; spike the shades from
preying eyes! The wolf is at the door. 

Now we are alone. Our mossy bed sinks deep
beneath our weight. We are otters, holding precious pearls.

Pamela Villars lives in Austin, writes at Flutter and Muse, works at the American Cancer Society, and volunteers for J Street Austin.