White Sage

I watch my hand move as it reaches for a sprig of sage. Tenderly, with permission, it plucks a silver leaf, soft as velvet and pleasantly pungent.
Rubbing the softness between my fingers, the aroma gets stronger,...
like an earthy woman left in the sun to dance and sweat;
like the scent of a delicious man after ferocious love making,
his wild pheromones and wet hair only adding to his smell.

The plant knows no conformity.
It talks, but I am almost too deaf to hear-
its language is formed not by words, but by colors, movements and energy my brain can’t recognize.
It’s beyond the rational, beyond books of botany or healing.
It is the scent that draws me, that brings me to my knees each morning while I bury my face among silver ranches.
No, it does not speak English, but it communicates.
Perhaps if I quiet myself, if I become still and open to subtleties, something inside will understand.
Before I can hear, before I can understand, I have to learn how to hear without words, how to listen without my intellect.