Sparks blow to the confluence
0ur fire burns to shard and ashes
ice is on the ground.
Iris stalks are thick with buds
pale from lack of food
the absence of sun.
One week sooner
might have staved off death.
This year’s openings
mistimed
too tired and too broke.
I’ve never told I want
to skip over lines of the labyrinth
am afraid to cheat
haven’t watched an owl
fly through the window
or been to Scotland.
The way you’ve grown into
your body is beautiful
never thought that would happen
or that I could reconcile
me growing out of mine.
