Feb 25
Rose thorn, snow burn, tree gap, poppy flower.
What is it to bloom if not an act of violent exposure?
The rose leaned closer. Its petals parted, wet with thaw and wanting.
What is desire if not a breath held trembling before confession?
The bees inside my ribs beat themselves into a frenzy. The queen had found her dark honey.
The orchard gasped. And all night sap dripped down the veined trunk until the bark peeled back, firewood burning itself into prayer, our two shadows twining together like vines heaving under the weight of ripening fruit.
