The infinite patience
of a rose,
its respiring pauses,
is a secret vigil
and rewrite,
a lonesome serenade,
heard only
by hearts broken
to light’s smoldering
pique
and shadow.
We are not here
to tiptoe through the garden
at night.
We balance on the edge
of a slow-whirling blade,
a smooth silver plane
with teeth,
belonging to a star, unnamed,
its heart a fiery proof
and fade
of joy and grief.