petals peel away and fall to ground. from close enough, from small, they make a sound as they floatumble through air, come to rest on grass and soil and root. the first and second reserve the rhythm, and in their beat the others follow suit.
each one’s whisper is unique, informed by shape and place and spin and speed—this one sounds like a rumble in rock, this one like a voice that speaks to need; anothereminds of broken bells, and one of skybound birds; one, of banter; many, bonds unlocked; that, the tune a tribe’s truce tells; this, of howling hounds; and all, of whispered words.
every one of these petals is red, no two alike in hue; there’s the luster of a labyrinthread, the rawning of a soul al[l]waysplit through, the throbbing of a hunger beyond feeding, the flush of cheeks in drifted hush, the heeding and the heating of the last name known to lust, the count to one and its fold to done in twist and tryst and trust.
they carry scents down to the dust as they dry out and crumble. scents are reminders—of old friends and their bends, of strident striders incensed in sense, of seashore si[gh]ren[d]s, of houses whole though humble. as scent tells taste, not a whiff goes to waste when the land’s glide to desert is relished, or silver seeds are slowly savored. the soapstone suggestion in the mouth of a savior shows his surprise when he opens his eyes far from his father and favored.
touched by sunlight from above, by water from below, the fallen trade their form to feed the flower they once were and soon will be, become soil and seed to grow again green its smoother parts, supple and subtle and soft; to hold itstem high toward the starshining sky and raise its golden grains in echo, ecstatic, aloft; and to unfold new petals, red riddles filled with longing, like letters, to live out lives of their own, to be adepts of belief and belonging, to shine with all the soul their sun has shown.
each petal’s a place, a time, a taste, a rhyme;
each grain of pollen, a glint.
each thorn is a threat, a thought, a thrill;
each leaf is a h[e]aven, a hint.
the nectar’s a nostalgia for a world that never was.
the stem’s a spine to stand up straight when death does what it does.
the roots beneath: may be and might have been.
the soil they grip is what’s done.
the water they drink is distilled of desires.
the sun is always the sun.