napowrimo #16

Like a pile of rose crumbs, water becomes perfume,
the scent of a woman playing in petals of peace lilies;
lavender oil, fresh and clean as vanilla beans,
drips into the creases of her palm like candle wax.

Becoming stirred inside this pile of what it feels
like to rest away, to sleep like a rose bud,
is to mold me into the mix of the day the woman, the mother,
played. Days before she eternally rest like rose crumbs.