Je sens la grande vulnérabilité aujourd'hui


the pale of yellow . . . blossoms
open before the sun
as she parades her delicate
delighting in the warm
fragile in her newness

still,

she fears the horizon
the blackening in promise
that winter has not quite gone
and the threat of storm
lies heavy upon air

oh,

she,
such a tender little blossom
virgin to this world
innocent in her understanding
bared before the impending
how she wishes for a stone
to be rolled along side her
to shield and to hide her
from the coming of the crying

yet—

she was born to be wild
and though the weather will wear upon her
her stalk will stand steady
and her stem will grow strong

so,

tuck away your fear little flower
and push your petals upward
you were not meant to be a hothouse pretty
but the field sprung inspiration
for a meadowlark’s song

s.a.t.