Called to Earth Footprints in blood, an Indian wedding. The rosy red that spirals into white. Sap that rises and ebbs again. Flowers bathed in morning dew feel cool and damp against my fingers. Wet velvet, a foal’s nose nuzzling my palm. Cupped petals cascade towards the shimmer and beckon of the sea. I remember the goddess of shells, that deserted beach in Portugal, sun-drenched mornings, the shade of the Cypress tree.