Craig W. Steele

Whitecaps crash and break,
then bow their heads upon the shore
of painfully-close-cut grass, while
waves of red, yellow, pink petals
surge in the depths of an English
rose garden,

a roseated sea, cycling colors
like a many-limbed chameleon,
petaled scales rippling into geysers
that quickly cascade over thorny rocks,
spraying bursts of pastel foam amid
jaded greenery,

while mists of fragrant spray coalesce
into clouds of fragile perfumery,
country sweet, decanting their spells
when I inhale their airy essences,
befogging my mind until I float within a
velvety balm.