13. Azalea

Azalea

camphor casts its woody net
through the pines; a sapling
sips a sour milk: onion bulb
buried to the hip, small root
rotting in the acid. Azalea
castles the cat; blueberry
washes in hot tempest.
These days are coming on,
coalescing: a marriage made
in the shallow soil, elements
broken, the carbon seeping
down to center. Master of
the cold months, master
of salty flocks and strange pails
filled with oysters, a salt-suck.