it was spring and
my mind had withered to
hydrangea petals
all blue
twig fingers
scaling corners
of all the things
they could not touch.
i tried to say all
of where i’d been but
the earth pulled
at my elbows
and knees like
silk kite strings i
struggled to unravel
from around glass ankles.
taking flight was
a greenhouse pipe dream
i’d hidden in the
brightest pot
before i
placed petals where
my eyes used to be
and one behind my ear.
let them come, i thought
the grieving
chrysanthemums
might make
them think
of me
struggling to grow myself
somewhere out there.