The Healer

Just beyond the parking lot,
my husband chases
our daughter through
the trails of the Rouge Valley,
as they await a break between
my cases—to visit the “hopstipal”
where she was born, where
I still work on weekends.

And when, after countless
false starts, I am able
to receive them in the lobby,
she anoints my cheeks
with petrichor kisses,
carrying a healing garden
in her hair; curls ensnared
with golden mullein flowers,
bursts of jewelweed, beads
of purple clover and
a lacy veil of yarrow.

She replaces the pager
in my fist with heaps
of wood sorrel from her
pockets, until my palms—
now open—overflow with
heart-shaped leaves.