That scarlet blares bright when
her stems have grown ripe and
she sits at the backs of her ankles
until the sun creeps behind the trees.
Twenty-thick years of nerves,
weaved snugly with strands of
both fervor and defeat
stand severed in the span of a day.
But as these sprouts from the ground
distend towards the sky,
she feels less and less like
she'll ever unfold again.
Red rings above her elbows
sting like shackles and taunt her,
whispering of petals rarely ever seen
while beads of water break
on her skin and roll out a rhythm;
vexation will never be redeemed.
Branches tap morse code on the pane,
this won't wash off in the rain.
The sharp tinge of blue that
coats her eyes is made smoother
by medicine that tags
her breath "in danger"
but as the sobs--once choked--grow
smooth, begin to soothe
like a slow, sad song
and since the night is long,
her mind assigns
the blood in her ears a steady beat,
and her sore eyes ease closed
as she rocks herself to sleep.