At the Feet of Roses

(A Glosa)

In the garden of woven shadows, Wessel in coveralls
and me, sowing bulbs, knees plugged with mud
thicker than my own wadded guilt.
Today in my heart,

salvation has compost breath as I dig in soil’s decadent scrimmage, 
head down. Wessel’s remarks barely crest the flourishing alyssum
but when I turn to see his face I find only
a vague trembling of stars.

I unearth a grub, fat as thumbs, and think of her, that singing
Veronique.  Market Thursday; two hands in the zucchini basket, eyes 
and fingers intertwined,  we were spikes and perfume in heady blend.
And all roses are,

their secret feet, toes all awiggle in moist, dark beds while
up above coiffed heads, their intimate spirals, breezily divine.
Oh, little grub, you’re as fat and
as white as my pain.

This is a late contribution to NaPoWriMo’s Day 3 prompt. I chose as the basis of my Glosa, these lines from Federico Garcia Lorca:

“Today in my heart
a vague trembling of stars
and all roses are
as white as my pain.”
― Federico García Lorca