It's true, I suppose: one could grow too fond of one's sorrows. Trouble is, all my life there's always been someone reminding me about the coin with two faces, the violent wind that sweeps everything out of your house so the good can enter to take up residence. Supposedly, there's no way we could know joy without its sulking sister, without its melancholic brother, its malcontent stepmother. And certain toxic plants have common lookalikes— poison instead of water hemlock; pods of the castor bean, cracked seeds from the red rosary pea. Some herbs are tender and good to eat. Others itch your throat with fuzz or leave their bitter flavor in your mouth— the seal of a kiss that subtly changes what faith you had in a world benevolent and wildly sweet all the way through, so it whets your taste for more.
Purveyors of fine poetry since 2003.