Radish, Certainly

There's a certain cruelty in the great strikes
of his pestle: grinding the leaves into paste,
reminding them of the heavy scent
of jasmine as it is driven down:

it may seem so, until you see
the soil dark and soft as midnight sky,
starred with soft-leaved sprouts,
raising galaxies of scent
to swirl in the air, strike the tongue,

the nostrils quivering for the remembrance
of rosemary, the tang of thyme,
the song of jasmine like the faint recollection
of a lover's scent on a wind to make you weep;

Until you see him raising from their roots
as base, these things into an art of blending,
to walk the line between poison and healing
with hooves so great they might engulf it;

Until you see him know each plant
by name, and gently open
its heart with his pestle,
and let its see its purpose
and wash away ill and pain; then you see
there's a certain kindness.