Only when eyes were elsewhere, your hand held mine,
lushly conjuring wildflowers up my arm. Lithe roots,
learning an old dance to a new song, found purchase
in the fertile soil of a dark heart. We spoke to the petals,
too bright and feisty to prepare to fall. We told them stories
of lilacs, of strawberry moons, of a flying snake
that did not have to eat itself anymore. The flowers
flushed a jealous shade, twisting a möbius fortune as they told it:
we would not last the coming winter. The spring, for us,
could only be new life.