the truth of it
is the seed
you never saw
dropped by bird or breeze or
gnarled fingers
holding silent
in
the cold of dark
the dark of cold
the carapace
of old
tend the bloom
discard
decay
worship petal
over promise
the grey kitchen
sings in whispers
to the rainbow
of brevity
each flower is merely
the camouflage of purpose:
grow
continue
circle-cycle
rest in soil
the light was always
your beginning
…
