During the war, women hid messages

   inside white flowers

tucked in their hair. They crossed

   enemy lines, slipped the blossoms

into soldiers’ fists. What might

   have been a child’s crown

for her communion, an offering

   at a grave, might win the war.

The ovule, the style, the stigma—

   what seemed to unfurl overnight

took weeks, even years.

   Dream your hand plucks the bloom,

its widest petals like porcelain,

   and a halo of bees skims your arms.

Upon waking, walk to the docks,

   the bloom heavy behind your ear,

and breathe in its sweet persistence,

   its scent of sea salt and gutted fish.