A Sestina; Prudence, Innocence, and Corruption

All alone, I am left to think.
Pondering the hollyhocks’ taste
on the air that leads the tune I hear.
Alone, I’m caressed by the grass’s touch
and the high noon lawnmower’s scent.
Innocent life teeming as far as the horizon can see.

On the ground I see
what anyone might think
to be an umbrella with an art deco taste.
The pattern is loud, so that I hear
the cubist repetition. The touch
of a corner tickles my ankle and its rose scent.

Past the horizon, a nimbus scent
brews in the sky. On the treetops you’ll see
thunderheads and think
raindrops from goose down may taste
reminiscent of tears of songs you’ll hear
from lips that don’t shy from Sin’s touch.

Beneath the umbrella, I hide from the touch
of water that holds a teardrop’s scent.
Against the elm and ivy, I see
lightning strike. Think
of the electrifying taste
left by the sparks of cankering choice. Snap!, I hear.

As a branch of leaves avalanches down, you’ll hear
the pebble-patter of rain. It touch—
its icy heartless touch—brings the scent
of pain upon your remorseful heart. You’ll see.
Maybe—before Sin’s tears prick you skin—you’ll think
about how cold the acidic burn will taste.

And before that taste, you might hear
why the touch of a tear has a searing scent.
And you might see you umbrella and think.