Canterbury Bells by Elana Wolff

Never mind they hang their heads
from spring

until December. Time
would pleat if it had tucked-buds

and purple petals like these—
whose scent is ever-slightly minty,

ring almost inaudible to humans. This woman
bends to listen, sniffs the mint

and plucks a stem.
A chipmunk darts across the yard, pauses

at the gothic wall to watch.
Not to be caught in the act, the woman swivels

quick, & trips.
Never mind she tears her purple skirt

& skins her shins.
Campánula, in the language of flowers,

means thanks.

— from Juniper Volume 7, Issue 3