
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.
Elizabeth Birch lives in Plymouth, Massachusetts. Her poetry has been featured in the Yellow Arrow Journal, The Tiger Moth Review, Nixes Mate, Writers Resist, Willows Wept Review, Stirring, Third Wednesday, Portrait of New England, The Orchards Poetry Journal, and elsewhere. You can find her on Instagram and Facebook at ebirchpoetry.






















