The rhythm of this heart,
like rainfall, rapid and random,
is calmed by digitalis,
a drug derived from poisonous plants
with names like Foxglove and Monk’s Hood.
Names less taxing than our medical Latin,
but with the same truth:
one in being, won by word,
whether stepping out of a thimble flower
or fabricated in a pharmaceutical lab.
With a flash of her tail
the fox disappears into a thicket,
tongue of flame for an instant
before the empty rustle of leaves.
The monk pulls back his hood
and vanishes behind columns of stone
and the silence filling a cathedral.
The pharmacist counts out pills
with each finger push.
I leave with the medicine in hand,
the labeled bottle like a burning bush.
