We pick them at dusk
when the night bends down

to trace their little pads
with dew. Every petal

the pointed face of yet another
split in the stem.

Mormor bids us drown
the bundled dots for

three nights in a broth
of muddled lemons

and fleshy berries
until the pot brims

with liquid bloom.
The florets are a

foam of pearls. Strained,
they lie limp, swathed

in a muslin cloth,
pale and warm.

I boil some water.
The bloodlet nectar

purls as steam winds
around the falling stream.

Strands of undissolved liquor
skate across the surface

like the weft of a dream.