Through the Crimson Swirl

The offshore mist of a sober summer
swallows mistaken expectations 
as a small bud within my body 
swells against its sepals.

Unable to trace the teary streams of a self
dissipating, my calloused mind peels to reveal
the raw underbelly of nothing-knowing, new
as you will soon be. Chin to the sun, 
I let my soft petals push 
up and out, fall 
like the silk nightgown of a waking soul. 

We are all pulled from the earth
and dying. Come winter, I will forget
wildflower whispers — how I leaned 
closer, eyes closed, desperate, 
decayed. The immolation of this season 
will give way to new growth. 
Through the crimson swirl 
of my smolder, I will see 
your edges unfurl
and no longer need my own.