She said, let there be darkness, and there was light
In the dried rose between handmade winter pages,
The scent of summer incandescent under lanterns
Flickering over the brown wafers,
Stronger than plump young petals at blooming.
For we who have seen an empty year are alive,
Knowing death at the threshold, hearing the words
From the doctor’s beak that points inward to the blind soul that breaks
Free of “we weren’t enough," and follows
The child who sounded the alarm because she cared.
Between ourselves and the shadow is a realm unknown,
The space between, billowing like untameable silk,
Glowing unmistakably with the shiny cheek of spring,
Whose skin colour is equal as trees
In an opera of flitting whispers under the canopy.
On a day of stillness there is no waiting, or longing for the restoration,
For there are no advances or refunds in time
That meanders like a crooked stony creek, gnarled as used fingers,
Offering a pure cup not to be mistaken
For insurance, which cannot save a flower.
Only the beholder can do that.