Surviving the night,
the new blossom has no choice
but to pick my eyes.
The wind—razor sharp,
the moon—razor cold,
yet I remain:
a pulse beneath the frost,
a stem between the scissors,
a breath that never outlasts
the godlike silence of stone.
The bloom opens
not to be seen,
but to remember seeing.
Light falls like mercy
upon its trembling edge,
and I, the witness,
am also the wound that heals.
Between its petals,
a quiet decree:
to bloom is to believe,
to face what burned you once,
and still lean toward the sun.
What cut you, nests you.
What wounded, holds you close,
so you might survive the cold night
in her love.
