Such simple chemistry unlocks 

a bulb's code – water, light 

earth, air – so you can hold its flower; 

like this wood anemone 

cupped in my hand, for you to see.

What makes the heart more than

a living pump, this animated lump 

of vein and blood?

What kind of occult key

can bare its bud 

to occupy a season of its own

as if it had been dormant, 

not a stone? 

A constant love like these

winter anemones.



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